An Accounting of the Inquisition
by Riptide Monzarc
Summary: The world has broken open into chaos; the Chantry destroyed, the Fade bleeding out across the land, the Grey Wardens disappeared from every nation in Thedas. Cassandra Pentaghast thought that Cethlenn Hawke might be the one person to help restore the balance, but Hawke is nowhere to be found. Who else can stop the madness?
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: Welcome to _An Accounting of the Inquisition_ , the fourth major story in my **Sanguinarius Sanctus** series. This tale is the semidirect successor to _Birds of Prey_ , though there are also plot details taken from _First Blood_ , which is set immediately between _BoP_ and _AAotI_. At this point there have been many minor and some fairly major canon divergences in the **S.S.** canon from vanilla Dragon Age lore, and _AAotI_ will explore many of these.

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 _Your fingers glide across the back of a row of books until they catch on aged leather. You aren't looking for anything in particular, but curiosity has you pulling at the old tome; it's thicker than any of the volumes around it, the spine rippled from use, though it evidently has no title and nothing in particular to recommend it. Its sole decoration is a rather striking symbol stamped into the front cover, comprising a flame-shrouded eye bisected by a down-facing sword. You think you vaguely recognise the symbol, almost as though you've seen it in a dream, but you can't place it any more firmly in your memory. The book is heavy but fragile, and you carefully carry it to a small desk in a private alcove. Not sure what to expect, you ease open the front leaf of the book, taking note of the vellum pages turned brown by the years, their edges uneven. The first page is filled with careful handwritten cursive, the ink's thickness varying regularly, suggesting a quill pen refreshed at intervals from an inkpot. A quick scan through subsequent pages shows the entire book is written in this manner, save for the occasional illustration, each of which seems like it's straight out of a children's book of fairy tales. On the verge of closing the tome in search of more appropriate literature, you decide to give the first few lines a chance to regain your interest._

" _A good friend of mine says that the best stories need no introduction, much less a preamble," the page reads. "But, for reasons I still cannot quite understand, it has fallen to me to convey this tale, and I fear I am not nearly so accomplished a storyteller as it deserves. Still, the story must be recorded, and I hope you will forgive the unskilled manner which I have here employed to do so."_

 _You blink, knowing you should close the book now and replace it on the shelf, knowing that the author's advisor was right and that no work of literature worthy of the term would bother to apologise for itself so brazenly, but_ something _keeps your eyes marching across the page for just a few more lines. "This tale will one day, I sincerely hope, seem the height of fantasy. Perhaps by the time you read these words, the troubles now besetting our world will have passed into the depths of history, and thence into the realm of myth. But I promise you," the book insists, "each event relayed herein is as close an approximation to the reality as I could make it. I stand eyewitness to much, though not all, of what is to come, yet even my own memories have been examined and corroborated to the best of my ability._

" _This is a story of struggle, and sacrifice, and courage in the face of the unknown. Of a disparate collection of individuals, each haunted by their own fears and famished by their own desires, who nevertheless joined to make a united body in the face of the direst threat our perilous world has yet known._

" _More narrowly, it chronicles the path of a woman thrown into deadly circumstance, who triumphed over every challenge put before her, until she was regarded among the ranks of legend even as she lived. Many lies and rumours have been spread about her, some malicious, others too grandiose to be credited even by the ardent faithful. Here I have attempted, to the best of my limited ability, to set forth the truth as I have known it._

" _Suredat-an Adaar. Dorian Pavus. Cullen Rutherford. Knight-Enchanter Vivienne. Josephine Montilyet. Sera. The Iron Bull. Solas. Thomas Rainier. Cole. Sister Leliana. Varric Tethras. Enchanter Rhys. Cassandra Pentaghast. Countless souls whose names I never knew, who believed in our cause, who lived and died by our actions. Separately, we were nothing. Together, we formed the Inquisition."_

 _The last word is on a separate line, larger than the rest of the text, in solid block letters. Beneath it, in a much less careful hand, you see a note scrawled at an odd angle to the lines of the introduction. "Shit, Seeker," it reads. "If you wanted me to write the fucking introduction so badly, you should've asked."_

oOoOo

Chapter 1

oOoOo

The tear in the sky was awesome and terrifying, outstripping any of the warnings we'd been given on the arduous journey through the mountains. It glowed green against the clouds, which swirled sedately around it, and if one watched closely, one could imagine seeing the bright centre of the violation pressing out against its boundaries. "Would you take a look at that," Varric said, as close to awe-struck as I had ever heard him. It did not take him long to recover enough wit to cut himself with, however. "I'll bet you're glad we took a detour back in West Hill now, Seeker," he added, covering his disquiet with a boastful chuckle.

I dragged my eyes away from the violation of nature and rounded upon him with a sneer, even as I knew I was playing into his hands. "You will not speak such flippancy while Most Holy's remains have yet to be found," I growled. "You are lucky not to be shackled and gagged as it is, dwarf." But as I turned back to the path and resumed my march to the base camp, I was forced to concede that Varric was correct, even if I would never admit it to his face; had he not attempted escape after our landing in Ferelden, I and Leliana would not have been delayed in bringing him to Divine Justinia's presence, and we would all have died in the explosion which destroyed the mountain overlooking the village of Haven.

My thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected sight in the form of Cullen, formerly the Knight-Captain and briefly the Knight-Commander of the templars in Kirkwall. He had come with us across the Waking Sea but had not wished to pause his journey for the task of collecting the wayward dwarf, and I had not asked him to; in consequence, I'd spent much of the day since learning of the catastrophe privately worried that the templar had been lost. Luckily, my fears were unfounded.

"Hail," Cullen called, offering the templars' salute, which I returned without hesitation. "It is good to see you all again, even amidst this madness."

"I could say the same," I replied with a nod. "How is it _you_ survived the explosion? We were told there was only one."

Cullen grimaced, his eyes falling downcast. "I'm afraid the Maker had other plans for me," he admitted. "I took ill on the journey up the mountain and was convalescing at the time of the...event." He could not meet my gaze, but I sensed no malice in the evasion, only the guilt of the living in the face of so many dead. "I have recovered now, though," he assured us.

"That is a relief," Leliana said, from my and Varric's left, her voice still hollow, laced with shock. "At least the Maker's providence has seen fit to spare some of us…"

"Yet not the best of us," I finished, chancing another glance up to the Breach. "Justinia's death must be investigated, and, if possible, avenged." Cullen and Leliana both nodded in agreement with me, and my course was set. "Where is the survivor now?"

Cullen's face hardened and he gestured toward a nearby hut, where two ill-equipped soldiers stood at the ready to prevent ingress or egress. "She is within," he told me, "but she has not stirred to consciousness since stepping from the Fade through a rift. The soldiers were barely able to recover her before the area was inundated with demons." His face hardened as he swept a look up the path. "I'm afraid they're our more pressing concern at the moment. I've done what I can, but the soldiers here need more leadership than a single man can provide."

"If I may," came a tentative voice, and the elf stepped forward from where he'd been lingering in the shadows. "I will attend to the survivor while the rest of you shore up our defences against the invading spirits...that is, if we wish the survivor to actually _survive_."

Cullen tensed, evidently sensing the apostate's magic standing out against the background thrum from the Fade bleeding across the sky; though I still had reservations, however, I intervened. "This is Solas," I explained, giving the elf a skeptical glance. "He is an apostate who surrendered to my custody soon after news of the Breach reached us."

Solas looked to speak against my summation, but then reconsidered. "I am here to offer what assistance and expertise I might be able," he said, "but it will come to naught if we do not make haste."

"That is true enough," Cullen conceded, grudgingly. "The survivor is currently being attended by a rather reluctant alchemist. He's not a mage and certainly no healer, but he has kept her from succumbing thus far." The man looked to me for guidance, and I inclined my head slightly. In turn, he gestured to the hut once more. "You'll find her there; tell the guards I sent you, and they should present no further challenge."

The elf parted without ceremony, openly using his staff to help navigate the treacherous drifts of snow between us and the cabin. "Well, shit," Varric opined, unshouldering the crossbow that I now no longer regretted allowing back into his grasp. "Think you've got a couple more waltzes in you, Bianca?"

I rolled my eyes at the foolish nickname; it was not his companions, but rather his weapon that he fawned over as though it were a newborn doe in the glistening spring. "Let us go see to what forces remain," I judged, unshouldering the shield I still carried, of the Order I no longer served. The straps found my forearm as reliably as ever, despite my all-too-recent infidelity, and my sword sang as justly as it always had when I wrenched it from the sheath. "Are you yet in fighting shape, Cullen?"

"Indeed," he sighed, readying his own weapons, but wearily. "The path to our enemy is not difficult to follow...simply keep to the Breach, and we'll happen upon our fellows soon enough."

And so we did. We four who'd set out from Kirkwall together so hopeful that there might be peace were plunged into a battle even more terrible than the war we'd all aspired to see ended. In the few handfuls of hours since Cullen had become ambulatory, he'd organised what resistance he could with the scant dozens of soldiers left after the mountaintop's annihilation, but these men and women were weary from days of fighting an enemy with no need of rest, no pain for hunger, no tongue for reason or surrender.

Varric's doting care of his weapon was justified almost immediately, for the first time I saw it employed, I was quite impressed by the ruthless efficacy the dwarf managed. Unlike every other crossbow I'd ever seen, which managed perhaps two or three shots before needing to be laboriously reloaded, the tool in Varric's hands hurled bolt after bolt, with only the occasional pause of a few heartbeats before the dwarf's practiced fingers reset a quiver's worth in the cartridges his coat concealed. Yet, fortuitously, the tempest of battle soon drew my attention away from any admiration I might have expressed, and it was the work of hours to turn the tide in the defenders' favour.

It was no small feat to break that first wave of demons, and the exhausted troops took their share of casualties, but once the assault was blunted and turned back, it became a matter of administration and vigilance. The troops lucky enough to withstand the opening of the Breach and the subsequent outpouring of horrors were disunited, demoralised, desperate. Some of them weren't even soldiers. It took every scrap of skill and authority that Cullen and I possessed to keep the majority from simply evaporating once the immediate threat had passed, but we managed to retain the attention of the majority, and set about imposing martial order and discipline upon them. When they were not themselves fighting, Leliana and Varric saw to establishing the logistics of the camp, and within three days we had turned a pitched battle into a grinding siege. Far from ideal, to be certain, but far from hopeless also.

As hope kindled, rumour began to take root. More than a dozen people claimed to have seen the survivor stumble out of one of the rifts, a creature of flesh stepping physically from the Fade. In what limited time I was afforded, I sought out the truth of this event, and from so many differing accounts I gleaned that the survivor was seen standing in the Fade alongside another figure, evidently human but viewed only in profile. The mysterious woman urged the survivor on, through the rift, but she herself remained behind in the Fade, and very shortly thereafter simply disappeared. The survivor managed three or four steps before collapsing. From these bare facts, a wildfire of speculation was already commencing, perhaps the most audacious of which was that the elusive woman was Andraste herself, and the unconscious survivor was Her holy messenger. This was yet rare, but it still brought some concern. I was too overwhelmed to check these various rumours, however, and some of them seemed to give the beleaguered forces a semblance of unified purpose, which was essential if we were to survive long enough to keep the Breach from swallowing the world.

On the evening of the third day since our arrival, Solas emerged from the survivor's hut, with news that she was on the verge of waking. He spoke of the strange mark upon her hand that appeared, to his studious eye, to be connected to the rifts in the Veil through which the demons periodically emerged to renew the fighting. He and I spoke privately, and at some length, about the possibility of the connection, and the elf theorised that the mark might be of use in sealing the rifts...and, ultimately, in closing the Breach itself.

During our conversation, Cullen went to check upon the survivor's progress, and he met Leliana, Varric, and I just outside the door to the hut when we arrived. "She is awake," he allowed, "but she hasn't been entirely cooperative."

My eyes narrowed as I considered the open doorway. "She has offered resistance?"

"No," he clarified. "But she hasn't spoken a word since opening her eyes, and hasn't moved from her current position even an inch as long as I've observed her. Her wrists have been stocked together as a precaution, but thus far she hasn't even acknowledged any of my questions." I was about to move on, to look into the prisoner myself, but something in Cullen's expression gave me pause. Sensing my hesitation, he shook his head. "There is something else," he admitted. "I think...I think I recognise her."

That news shocked me. "Was she in Kirkwall during the invasion?" From the reports and rumours, I'd gathered that the woman was qunari, at least physically, as well as a mage. Both facts only increased my suspicion at her survival of the explosion that claimed Most Holy and nearly every grand cleric of note in the Chantry's hierarchy.

"I could not say," Cullen insisted. "But she strongly resembles a qunari woman who was present at the last hour, during Meredith's demise."

Varric guffawed an incredulous laugh. "You're shitting me," he blurted out. "You think it could really be _her_?"

I gave the dwarf another narrow-eyed glance of warning. "The qunari Grey Warden you mentioned in your story? The one who stood side by side with Hawke at the Gallows?"

The silver-tongued dwarf threw up his hands. "How the hell should I know, Seeker? I haven't even seen her yet!"

Sniffing, I turned back to Cullen. "Thank you for this information," I allowed. "Please make sure none of our _allies_ get lost." The sidelong look I gave to Varric at this likely wasn't necessary, but it saved me enduring another quip, at least for the moment.

The trek to the outbuilding where the survivor was being held seemed nearly as long as the journey up the mountain had taken. The Hero of Ferelden's involvement in Kirkwall had complicated matters beyond their breaking point, intentionally or not, and her activities since had only served to fuel tension between the Chantry and the Circles. Her recent disappearance was curious as well; if one of her agents had been sent to precipitate the final dissolution of the Chantry…

I shook my head as I entered the hut and dismissed the guards who nervously stood watch over the bound woman. The men left us in peace, likely grateful for the discharge of their duty, and I took stock of the prisoner in silence for a few moments. She was large, even for one of her kind, with lavender-toned skin and long, unkempt silver hair. The horns for which her race was famed had been truncated at some point in her life, so that now the stubs rose from her skull and swept back a hand's breadth before ending in gilded caps. Even in the low light of the hut, I saw the deep punctures across her lips, proving that her lips had once been sewn shut; if anything, that made me even more deeply suspicious of her intentions. Though I would later learn that all mages under the Qun underwent the Unspeaking Ritual upon maturation, I did not know this at the time, and I had heard such was a punishment visited upon qunari mages for milder forms of magical abuse.

Even as I paced around her, though, the survivor did not acknowledge my presence; she knelt in the centre of the room, dressed in burlap hastily stitched together by the guards to make some attempt at modesty, since she had emerged from the rift with only scraps of whatever she'd worn before the explosion. It must have been intensely uncomfortable, yet she did not move, did not even seem to breathe. Part of me wondered if she even yet lived as I came to stand in front of her. "I am Cassandra Pentaghast," I told her, "and you will tell me of your involvement in the murder of the Divine if you wish to survive until morning." Even as I spoke the threat, I knew my words alone would have little impact upon her, and so I slowly drew my sword to see if the ringing of the steel would also draw out some response.

It did not. Still she knelt, as mute and imposing as ever. I leveled my blade at the bridge of her nose. "I understand you were present at Kirkwall for the destruction of the Circle and the murder of Grand Cleric Elthina by virtue of a magical explosion," I pointed out. "Such evidence would be enough to convict you in the eyes of nearly all the faithful, should it become widely known. Do you expect me to believe your presence here mere circumstance?"

Miraculously, the woman opened her eyes, and I saw pools of quicksilver which almost seemed to swirl in the torchlight. What I did not see, as she looked up the length of my blade and met my gaze, was even a modicum of fear. "No," she said, her voice as a rolling bank of thunder in the distance.

"No," I repeated, marshalling my thoughts to keep my arm from lunging forward to mete out what might well have been justice. "So you admit that you had a hand in this catastrophe?"

"No," she said again, her eyes steady even as my sword-arm trembled slightly.

I shook my head and took a step back, though I did not replace my weapon. "Explain," I demanded.

A heartbeat passed before she gave her answer. "No."

Growling in frustration, I nearly screamed. "Is that the only word in your vocabulary, qunari?"

I had only myself to blame when she replied again. "No."

Closing my eyes, I decided that getting even that one syllable out of the prisoner represented more progress than Cullen had reported, and so I took a few breaths to calm my temper. "Are you a follower of the Qun," I asked, hoping this would force a different response, "or Tal-Vashoth?"

Still, the prisoner vexed me. "No," she said another time, and when I looked upon her, I fancied I saw a glimmer of humour in her eyes and her scarred lips.

I believe I did scream, then, and I sheathed my sword to keep from wetting it with blood before I was truly convinced of the necessity of such action. "What in the Maker's name _are_ you, then?"

She finally blinked. " _Saarebas adaar,_ " she intoned.

The sounds were meaningless to me, except inasmuch as they were a fivefold increase in the number of syllables the woman had yet uttered in a single breath. "Is that your name?" I wondered, fool that I was.

"No."

Prudence forced me to knuckle my forehead. "Let me rephrase," I insisted. "What is your name?" It seemed only direct questions would be even minimally productive.

"Suredat-an," she answered.

"And what were you doing at the Conclave?"

"Seeking someone."

I swallowed my annoyance more easily now; she was hardly the first obstinate source of information I'd ever encountered, and in this darkened room, the urgency of the Breach and the Divine's death seemed a bit more remote. "Who were you searching for?"

" _Basvaarad_ ," Suredat-an supplied, another qunari word without meaning to me.

"Were they here?" I wondered, seeking some purchase that would get the woman to be more forthcoming. "At the Conclave?"

"No," the qunari said, her scarred grimace deepening.

Then the truth, or at least a small portion of it, became clear to me. "You were seeking Warden-Commander Athadra," I ventured, not without some sympathy.

Suredat-an lifted her head millimetrically. "Yes," she admitted. "Or Lambert van Reeves."

Any accord I might have been building with her evaporated upon mention of that name. Only too recently, Lord Seeker Lambert had taken over the White Spire, apparently in a bid to keep it from erupting in rebellion. His attempts had not met success; the Spire now lay in ruins, its mages sparking the tinders laid by Kirkwall and Dairsmuid into a full-fledged rebellion which spread all across Thedas. That rebellion, or rather the Divine's attempt to end it, had been the impetus for calling the Conclave between the rogue mages and the fanatical templars who'd forsworn their oaths to the Chantry in order to hunt the former down with great prejudice. "Why would you be looking for a dead man?" I wondered.

"Because," the qunari replied, evidently unperturbed by the revelation, "he took her."

A small, sharp intake of breath drew my attention, and I looked back to see that Leliana had joined us at some point during our exchange. She shared a look with the prisoner, but her face was blank, the smoothness of river rock. "How do you know this?" She wondered, neutrally, and I marveled, for she had known the Hero personally and had greater cause than I to be alarmed by the prisoner's claim.

"I remember," Suredat-an insisted, and then her eyes narrowed and she spoke no more; I would have taken the expression as suspicion, except that at that moment, her face was illuminated from below by an unearthly glow from her left hand, and the muscles of her arm went rigid in rhythm with the pulse.

Where a guard or a peasant might see a dangerous mage in the midst of a conjuration, my years of Seeker training allowed me to discern the simple truth that the prisoner was simply in a great deal of pain. Sympathy as well as a desire for answers led me to try a different approach. "That mark is killing you," I told her, relaying information that the apostate had given me earlier. "As the rifts grow in the world, the magic spreads through your flesh, and unless you can stabilise it, you will very soon be dead."

"We cannot let that happen," Leliana insisted, stepping forward. "We must discover what caused the Breach, and close it, if we can."

"Please," I breathed, condescending to beg. "Tell us what happened, and we will try to keep the magic from destroying you."

"No," the qunari said again, though she sounded weary rather than belligerent.

Leliana put voice to my own heart's despair. "Why not?"

"Because," the prisoner rasped, looking disturbed for the first time, and perhaps a touch frightened. "I cannot remember."


	2. Chapter 2

Seeker that I had been, I thought myself long acquainted with the horrors of combat...and it is true that, up to the moment of my meeting the qunari who called herself Suredat-an, I could comfortably count myself a veteran of some skill. But very soon after departing from the hut that had been her prison, the taciturn woman demonstrated a familiarity and comfort with brutality that I could not help but be awed by, in the same vein as witnessing a great flood or some other terrible force of nature.

But I get ahead of myself. When last I put pen to paper, Suredat-an was lamenting her failure of memory to account for her survival, and Most Holy's all-too-probable death. It was a convenient excuse, predictable and discountable from most anyone's lips, but the sheer anguish and desolation I sensed in the woman's hitherto-stoic expression gave my skepticism a moment's pause. "You cannot remember," I repeated, flatly. "What is the last thing you _do_ remember, before waking in this room?"

"Opening a door," the woman allowed. "I sensed... _something._ Behind."

"Something," I said, tasting Most Holy's ashes beneath the word. "I take it you cannot recall precisely what was on the other side?"

The woman's eyes narrowed just noticeably once more as another flash emanated from her forearm. "No," she supplied, as expected. "Wood, fine of grain. Creak of hinge. Then...you." She shrugged her shoulders, lifting the heavy wood and iron which bound her wrists in front of her. "This."

Frustration nearly had me grasping at my sword once more. "So we have nothing," I growled, turning from the prisoner in disgust.

"No," came the obstinate woman's now-familiar refrain.

I rounded on her, keeping my distance for her sake, though despair threatened to consume me. "And why should I not bring your head from this hut to augment the morale of the troops I'm charged with commanding?" I demanded, heedless of the volume of my voice, of the opinions of the guards just clear of the unobstructed doorway.

"You may try," the qunari replied, her voice as deep and calm as Lake Celestine.

It was only Leliana's gentle hand upon my shoulder which kept me from accepting her proposal. "Vengeance is a poor substitute for justice," the Left Hand of the Divine counseled, sparing our prisoner a glance. "And she may have uses beyond extending our fight for a scant few hours."

My face set as I recalled Solas' theories, tentatively framed, but the only fertile soil out of which some sort of plan might be harvested. "It is possible that your mark's progress can be halted," I informed Suredat-an, grimacing. "And, along with it, an arrest of the Breach. Are you willing to assist us?"

"Yes," she said, without a noticeable change in pitch or expression.

"Very well," I allowed. "You may stand, and I will fetch the key to your bindings."

"No," Suredat-an retorted, even as she rose to her feet. I found myself transfixed for a moment, my head tilting up to keep her eyes in view, and I saw that her shoulders hunched to keep the stumps atop her head from brushing the planks of the ceiling. "Lead."

Blinking, I turned away from her once more. "There will be a trial," I vowed, as I stepped over the threshold and out into what remained of the pilgrim's village of Haven. "I can promise no more."

The qunari paused beside a low stone wall, and I watched over my shoulder as her long fingers wrapped around the bottom rim of the stocks. With hardly a flicker in her face, she brought the iron-ribbed wood down upon the rock with such force that metal and wooden splinters leapt from the apparatus as it broke open, and then she was free. She looked beyond me as I considered the raw strength such a feat required. " _Hissrad_ ," she intoned, though she offered no further greeting.

Varric Tethras sauntered closer, his crossbow propped upon his shoulder. "Good to see you too," he gruffed, before turning his attention to me. "We gonna get this show on the road, Seeker, or wait 'til we're ass-deep in demons right here?"

The dwarf's familiarity with the prisoner was mildly disconcerting, but I knew from his tale that they had had passing acquaintance in Kirkwall, through the Champion's connection to the Wardens. "Let us go," I judged, readying my sword and shield as I took the lead up the path.

Behind me, Solas fell into step beside the prisoner, and to my astonishment he began speaking to her in her own language, _Qunlat_. The qunari's responses were similarly curt and seemingly just as unsatisfying in that tongue, however, or the elf possibly exhausted his knowledge of it, for he soon switched to the King's Tongue. "If we are correct," he said, continuing their one-sided conversation, "this could provide a method of sealing rifts, and ultimately the Breach itself."

As luck would have it, we got the opportunity to test Solas' ideas not too long thereafter, as a Fade rift had opened and was disgorging demons onto the icy path between us and the forward camp up the mountain. With my two companions I was used to taking the brunt of the beasts' attention, while arrows and magic worked from a distance. Since Suredat-an was a mage, I had assumed that she would similarly keep to the rear, which suited my own preferences for skirmishing.

My assumption proved ill-founded, however. Unlike the Circle-trained mages or even the apostates familiar to me, the qunari did not shy from confronting her enemies directly, and she did so without the benefit of even a weapon, nor any armour that the ill-fitting burlap did not provide. Her hands and arms glowed with her own magic over and above the green of the mark, fire and ice and raw arcane energy, delivered with open-palmed blows and channeled by digging fingers. The woman seemed to come alive in the heat of battle, hissing half-formed cries that did not sound comprehensible in any language, attacking without any finesse but with so much overwhelming force that none could stand against her. Soon enough she was covered up to her elbows in demonic ichor, her torso weeping red from half a dozen cuts where her foes had gotten within her guard. She seemed not to notice the wounds in her exultation, even after the last of the otherworldly creatures had been dissolved by our squadron's combined assault. Indeed, as we faced one another, the qunari looked ready to continue the fight.

Given what I had just witnessed, I was hardly eager to engage, but I stood ready if it proved necessary. "Stand down," I commanded, holding my arms at the ready.

By degrees, the animating fire in the qunari's eyes receded, and she lowered her arms-her bare arms-releasing her magic until the only energy remaining was that of the mark. "And now you know how a few hundred horn-heads nearly took over a city state," Varric quipped. "That was just a warmup exercise; just you wait'll we get a _real_ fight on our hands."

I sensed that her lack of reaction to this praise was due more to apathy than modesty, and after a moment's measurement, I judged it safe to replace my sword and shield. "I am grateful that we are allies," I allowed. "For the moment, at least."

"Indeed," Solas added. "And one hopes we can forge a less ephemeral fellowship presently." He stepped forward, tilting his head to the still-extant rift which hung ominously above us. It appeared thicker than usual, as though scabbed over, but I knew from experience that it was still very dangerous. "May I?" He broached, gesturing toward the prisoner's left hand. It flashed angrily, and all the more so when he guided it closer to the rift, until a current of raw power opened up between her palm and the wound in the Veil.

The darker skin of the rift drew back, and another wave of demons slithered into this world from the Fade. It was left to Varric and I to keep them distracted while Solas guided Suredat-an's will, but the task was not as impossible as it first appeared, for as soon as the rift disappeared the demons became confused and easily dispatched. "Wonderful!" Solas exclaimed, when the fighting was done. "It is just as I suspected. Look, you can even see that the mark's spread has halted."

Suredat-an held her arm out to examine, and I could see that the elf's words were true enough. "It seems we _do_ have some use for you, even if you can provide no insight into the root cause of this madness," I said.

Solas spoke up once more, offering a defence of the qunari that she herself was unable (or simply unwilling) to make. "Surely you do not still think her culpable in the opening of the Breach."

"I am uncertain what I believe," I admitted, looking from Solas to Suredat-an. "All I know is that you are at the heart of this tragedy, and until we discover more about how and why it happened, you will remain a suspect to a great many people."

Including Chancellor Roderick, it turned out, when we finally made it to the forward camp more than an hour and two rifts later. Up to this point I had tolerated the man, who in his grief kept trying to assert authority that would have normally been beyond him...though, given the evisceration of the Chantry's hierarchy, he had never been closer to real power. Now he proved himself braver, or perhaps madder, than I could have imagined, for when he saw Suredat-an unshackled and wearing the evidence of three hard-fought battles, he became indignant. "The prisoner should be clapped in irons," he demanded, "and made ready for transport to Val Royeaux!"

"If you wish to bind her," I told him, recalling the qunari's words back in the hut that had been her prison, "you may try." The intervening time had not convinced me of her innocence, but I could see no motive for the rifts' openings to have been intentional, at least on Suredat-an's part. She held no special command of demons, and seemed as zealous in her urge to destroy them as any Seeker or templar I had ever seen. Further, in between the bouts of unmitigated ferocity when in combat, the qunari was biddable enough, and I was no longer willing to forego her prowess out of a misplaced urge for revenge.

The man's valour seemed to flee him at the prospect of confronting a woman nearly twice his height, for though he sputtered, he made no move to eliminate the obstacle of the table which separated him from the qunari. Leliana emerged from shadow, having evaded the demons and preceded us to the camp by some means I could not hope to fathom. "The Veil has grown thinner by the moment on our trek," she informed us, speaking over the chancellor's continued objections. "We have soldiers along the main route, and some of my scouts up a more direct path. Both are now nearly overwhelmed; if we hope to make the Breach, we must decide which way to follow."

Cullen lent his voice to the sudden deliberation. "If we do not choose soon, I fear we shall lose a great many good men and women, regardless."

Though neither of them had actually witnessed the prisoner's willingness to fight, both the commander and the bard turned their attention to her, as though it were her decision. When three heartbeats passed without her acknowledgement, nor even her curiosity, I could no longer stand idle. "We shall help our soldiers," I judged. "The scouts may well fall back more easily, and if not...they are fewer in number."

This grim accounting of war did not invite argument, and once again I led the way up the mountain, drawing ever closer to that great wound in the sky. The soldiers we'd stationed close to the Breach were by now in desperate straits, and they were not cheered by the presence of the prisoner; though some who'd witnessed her exit from the Fade had whispered that Andraste stood behind her in the rift, the great body of our forces were still in shock over Most Holy's death, and many of them sought to blame Suredat-an for the tragedy. Yet, once they witnessed the fierce tenacity she took to the destruction of their enemies, the soldiers we rescued kept their reservations to themselves.

As we neared the temple where the Divine had held such hopes for peace, I noticed that a gossamer thread extended from the very heart of the Breach to what appeared to be an enormous rift. Solas suggested sealing this anchoring rift might well close the Breach itself, and so we forged into the remains of the temple. We were perhaps a bit too heedless of the risks involved, for though there were no demons at first, the Veil was paper thin, and our ears and eyes echoed with visions of what had occurred in the moments prior to the explosion.

I saw and heard the shade of Justinia herself, suspended and tortured by an enormous shadowed figure who, at first, put me in mind of Suredat-an. When it spoke, however, the malevolent tones of its voice rang with an unfamiliar timbre, reedy and avaricious despite its depth. _The hour of our victory is at hand._ The voice echoed oddly in the open air, coming from all corners, but unquestionably sourced at the hovering figure.

Justinia's shade called out in horror and confusion. _Why are you doing this? Someone, please, help me!_

The towering shadow drew nearer to the Divine's hovering form. _Keep the sacrifice still_. But then it paused. _An intruder. It must die._

And then I heard a new astral voice joining the din. It was but a single syllable, and yet it was unmistakably familiar; I had heard it repeated beyond my patience earlier in the evening, and in the same tones. The word was _no_ , and the throat it came from clearly belonged to Suredat-an.

An instant later the shadows evaporated, leaving us with many questions, though I was not without at least one answer. I looked to the qunari woman with a sliver of newfound respect. "You did not kill the Divine," I observed. "She...called out to you for help."

"...Yes," Suredat-an admitted, after a pregnant pause; she seemed as shaken as I had yet seen her, trembling with an unnamed fear, though even at this early stage I intuited that she would not welcome inquiry on the point.

"Make yourself ready," I counseled, as we approached the prototypical rift that sat directly beneath the Breach. Like many others, it was a congealed scab, inactive but hardly inert.

"There is a great deal of energy hovering just beyond," Solas advised. "We must be cautious in sealing it."

I cleared my throat, glancing at the bank of archers and pikemen which had assembled along the gallery behind us. "That means demons," I translated, loudly enough for them to hear. I unshouldered my shield and drew my sword, preparing myself once again, hardly daring to hope that this might spell the end of the chaos. "Stand ready!"

I should not have allowed myself even that faint ray of optimism. Though we stood and fought against the monsters who tried to cross the rift into our world, and though we ultimately repelled the demon of pride that nearly proved too much for us all, closing the rift beneath the Breath did not prove decisive in our struggle to mend the world. The effort it cost drove Suredat-an back to the edge of the abyss, weak as she was, and even under Solas' care there was for a time some renewed doubt about her survival. Yet survive she did, and as disappointing as our failure to mend the Breach was, we could not but feel relieved to have achieved some small victory.

Hours turned into days with no more rifts opening near Haven, which gave Cullen, Leliana, and I the breathing room to reorganise the village. The three of us convened twice-daily meetings to coordinate our efforts while our qunari guest lay unconscious, and each day saw more work than the last for each of us as new pilgrims arrived, seeking answers and shelter, neither of which we could easily provide. Yet not every new arrival was a burden; a fair few soldiers and merchants followed each caravan, which aided Cullen and I in our efforts to reinforce the numbers we'd lost in the fighting. On the third morning after sealing the temple's rift Leliana also had cause for relief when an associate of hers arrived from Val Royeaux.

"Originally en route to assist with negotiations between the templars and the mages," Leliana told us at our morning meeting at the heart of Haven's Chantry, "Josephine Montilyet is a diplomat of great skill. We shall surely need her in the weeks to come."

The woman herself smiled lightly as Leliana stepped aside. "Thank you for your praise, Leliana," she allowed, moving closer to the table around which we gathered. "But I am uncertain what part I might play here, now that the parties involved are...no longer in a position to open a dialogue." It was only the slightest tightness around her eyes that betrayed any emotion she might have been feeling at the recent turn of events.

I shared a look with my comrades in arms; Leliana gave a slight nod, while Cullen remained conspicuously reserved. "Most Holy developed a contingency plan," I allowed, "in the event that the Conclave might fail to bring a speedy resolution to the war."

"Of course," Leliana added, "she had not imagined that her plan would have to be enacted posthumously."

Josephine blinked, but otherwise was the portrait of patience, and I found myself impatient on her behalf. "We are preparing to declare a new Inquisition," I said, putting words to the conspiracy that none of us had dared breathe since first learning of the explosion that had created the Breach and robbed us of Justinia's guidance forever. "And it is true that we shall soon require a capable ambassador to assist us. We currently lack the skill to engage potential allies and dissuade them from turning into enemies."

"And until we have a sustainable source of food and supplies," Cullen amended, "we'll lack the strength to fend off any military threats."

The diplomat blinked once more, her face a very practiced mask, but I imagined a light of curiosity growing behind her eyes. "Well," she breathed. "That is...certainly an interesting circumstance."

Leliana chuckled. "Don't play so coy, Josie," she admonished with a smirk. "You know you've always loved a little danger...and what could be more exciting than bringing a new player into the Game?"

Josephine arched a brow at the Divine's former Left Hand. "I believe that one should be careful about accusations of coyness when an offer has not yet been clearly presented," she pointed out, a smirk of her own blooming on her face.

I cleared my throat. "Will you become our ambassador, Josephine?" I asked, directly, already tiring of the dance that the other two women had begun. "It is as likely to get you hung from the rafters of the Grand Cathedral as lauded by the faithful, but I do not believe we can succeed in this endeavour without your assistance."

The woman hesitated for the space of a breath, considering my words gravely, before she ultimately bowed her head in acquiescence. "It is my honour to offer that assistance, Seeker Pentaghast. It will be...a challenge, if nothing else."

"That's an understatement," Cullen underscored. "Right now I'm not even certain we have the vellum for a proper office, let alone the ink...but you are most welcome here, nonetheless."

Josephine bit her lip, looking from the templar to the spymaster and then, finally, to me. "Might I ask," she broached, "about the witness? The one who survived the cataclysm?"

I arched a brow, leaning forward and resting my palms on the rough wooden table that separated us. "What have you heard about her?"

"Very little that is creditable," she supplied. "The road has many rumours which change wildly the closer one comes to Haven. At first, I was under the impression that a monstrous demon had murdered the Divine and was taken prisoner, awaiting the Seekers' punishment. Just yesterday evening, however, I heard whispers that Andraste herself sent a messenger through the Veil to combat this demon. Naturally, I surmised that at least one person must have survived...but I dare not speculate further."

Her restraint was impressive, certainly more so than the pilgrims' and other lucky survivors', those who'd been too far from the mountaintop to perish. "The demon and the messenger are one and the same," I allowed. "A qunari mage who calls herself Suredat-an...though many here now call her the Herald of Andraste. She has been unconscious for days, now, though I am told she is expected to wake at any moment. What else would you like to know?"

"Is she guilty?"

"We do not believe so," Leliana answered for me. "There was a vision from the Fade, an echo of the explosion's preceding moments, which strongly suggests the qunari was trying to aid Most Holy."

"To no avail," I finished, "but yes...she is no longer a suspect of note, and as long as she wishes, she can remain here, under our protection."

"Though from what I've seen and heard," Cullen added, "this woman can more than protect herself."

A look of concern crossed our new ambassador's features. "That may well be," she said, "but if she ventures very far, she is likely to run into those who do _not_ call her the Herald of Andraste...and no matter how well she could acquit herself, she would not be able to fend off all those seeking glory, or revenge." Already it was obvious that Josephine's thoughts were turning toward our fledgling organisation, and how she might provide us some sort of benefit. "I propose that we recruit her, for our protection as well as her own."

"I agree," I replied, immediately. "I have seen Suredat-an in battle; she is no common soldier, nor even an ordinary mage. I would rather she fight for us than die in a farmer's field amid a bloodthirsty mob with a misplaced desire for justice." Leliana and Cullen voiced no dissent, and I nodded toward the wall over Josephine's left shoulder. "There is a storage room directly to the right once you leave this chamber; at present it is occupied by a mage dedicated to the study of magical artifacts and creatures, but I believe it has space to accommodate another desk and cabinet, if you are comfortable enough to take it for an office."

"I have no qualms," Josephine assured us, "so long as the person with whom I'll be sharing the space does not. I trust they are no more dangerous than any Circle mage?"

I nodded. "I would not have suggested it otherwise."

The ambassador offered me a tight smile. "Splendid," she offered. "Then I shall begin work as soon as practicable...once the requisite materials have been gathered, of course."

"Of course," I allowed. "We will find a desk directly, and I'll have our requisition officer gather what parchments and inks the village is able to spare."

"Thank you," Josephine said, with a small bow. "It will be a pleasure." She departed with a few words passed to Leliana, in Antivan, which the spymaster responded to in kind.

Once the proper orders had been relayed, the three of us returned to business, buoyed by the acquisition of a skilled colleague. It was almost enough to offset the nagging that came from Chancellor Roderick, who once again demanded that Suredat-an be shackled and transported to Val Royeaux to face the headsman's block. He lacked the authority to enforce his own edicts, along with the courage to effect them with his own hands, however, and so the qunari remained in slumber for the time being. She would not be long in waking.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: This chapter has a bit of explicit gore.

* * *

"First time I've made armour for a horn-head," Harritt remarked, surveying his handiwork; Suredat-an had woken a week previously, to no great fanfare other than frightening the elven servant set to watch over her half to death, and one of the first orders of business had been to send her to the newly-arrived blacksmith to commission proper battle attire. She had acquiesced to this, and now she stood by the blacksmith's forge in the leather harness and knee-length trousers he'd fashioned to her specifications. The thick straps criss-crossed her torso, offering some protection to her organs and soft tissues, but they still exposed much of the flesh along her flanks, chest, and back, along with the many scars she carried upon her frame. Harritt had also fashioned a coat of mail to be worn beneath the harness, to offer a modicum of true protection, but Suredat-an had shirked it. The blacksmith could only gaze ruefully upon his work and its obstinate wearer. "It fit right?"

Suredat-an nodded. Once.

"Good," Harritt said. "You'll be wantin' a staff, I take it? Somethin' nice and magic-like?"

"No," the mage answered.

"...Right," the blacksmith grunted. "A sword, then, at least?"

"No," Suredat-an repeated.

"...Alright, then," Harritt settled. "I suppose...that'll be all, until you'll be needin' somethin' else. Let me know."

She inclined her head once more and departed from the blacksmith's forge without another word. She had spent days in silence, in fact, since we had convinced her that remaining at Haven and fighting for our cause was a wiser course of action than taking her chances on the road. Such aloofness did little to dissuade the growing majority in the camp that she was some sort of divine messenger, sent back through the Veil on Andraste's behalf, if not at her very behest. Yet such whispers seemed irrelevant to the mage; indeed, in the days that I had then been in her acquaintance, I had yet to know a single passion she possessed, apart from her stated goal of finding the erstwhile Commander of the Grey in Ferelden.

The path she took from the forge would have taken her outside of Haven's recently-fortified walls, to a quarry where she often went to practice her magical skills in peace and solitude. Even if she disregarded the common people's opinion of her, she seemed to respect the omnipresent suspicion and outright hostility magic could invoke in them, possibly from her own experience. This day, however, Varric stepped astride her path, his crossbow slung across one shoulder and a toothpick resting between his lips. " _Hissrad_ ," Suredat-an called him, as she did whenever she deigned to acknowledge his presence.

"Now I've _got_ to give you a decent nickname," the dwarf scoffed. "How 'bout _Silver_?"

The woman's platinum eyebrows drew down. "No," she rumbled, a half-tone lower than normal.

Varric held up a placating hand. "Alright, alright...but when I _do_ think of one that sticks, you're not gonna be able to sneer your way out of it," he warned her. "Anyhow, Chuckles and the Seeker are waiting for us out by the front gate to take this show on the road. We've got some shit to find in this god-awful wasteland these people call the Hinterlands." The dwarf grunted. "And here I thought I was retired. Shows me, huh?"

Suredat-an had no reply, but when he turned, she followed, all the way through the village's outer gate, where Solas and I stood waiting. Cullen was not far away, observing a batch of recruits; many of them came from the ranks of the templars, or from those who aspired to take their vows. Though neither he nor I upheld the oaths of our respective orders any longer, we could not ignore the past, and it was clear that the soldiers would be far more comfortable being overseen by one they felt they could relate to. Thus, by mutual consent, Cullen had taken on the lion's share of training and organisation, while I took the lead in selecting and effecting major excursions.

"We do not have to enjoy one another's company," I said, by way of greeting, when the archer and the qunari joined us. I spoke in the King's Tongue, common to Ferelden and the Free Marches, as it was the only language understood by the four of us. "But the fact remains that we cannot stay isolated on this mountainside forever, and the truth of the matter is that there are none here more capable of forming an expeditionary squad than we." I looked from Solas to Varric and back again; though I still held reservations about the elf's motivations, and I still suspected that Varric's self-reported prowess in the Tale of the Champion might have been _slightly_ exaggerated, neither had given me cause to doubt their abilities and their willingness to employ them in our cause.

My eye fell upon Suredat-an. "Have you any reservations about following me into the Hinterlands?"

"No."

I nodded, satisfied by the predictable response. When I saw that she had returned from Harritt's without even a dagger, however, I scoffed. "You will need a proper weapon where we head."

"You're forgetting, Seeker," Varric spoke up, before the qunari could gainsay me once again. "I told you the _saarebas_ never used any staffs while they ransacked Kirkwall. That goes double for this one; never saw her pick up a butter knife." He made a dismissive gesture and glanced up the long distance between his eye-level and her own. "Besides, if she can shove her fists through a demon's chest and spit a fireball out the other side, I think a few apostates are the least of her worries. Now are we gonna get this circus on the road, or can I go back to my tent?"

"We shall go," I decided, unable to argue the point, especially given what I had witnessed during the effort of sealing the nearby rifts. I signalled to Emilia, one of the more capable soldiers who'd survived the blast, whom I'd placed in charge of transporting and securing supplies for a forward camp. The woman commanded a laden wagon pulled by the only draft horse we could then spare, and she was accompanied by half a dozen men at arms, tasked with protecting and defending our supplies as we forged ahead.

"Cassandra," Solas broached, once we were well underway. "I'm given to understand from our dwarven companion that you went to Kirkwall in order to seek out its Champion."

"That is correct," I acknowledged. "Once it became clear that she had truly abandoned the city, I settled on the next best thing: hearing the story of her rise to power...and subsequent fall."

"And what did you hope to gain if you'd found her?"

"I am uncertain," I answered, honestly. "Hawke is...a polarising figure, to put it mildly. I suppose I wanted to convince her to join me in putting out the flames that her rebel Warden companion helped to ignite...or, at least, to ascertain whether she would prosecute an active role in the mage uprising."

The deep pitch of the voice behind me took me by surprise. "She will not," Suredat-an said.

"Oh?" I retorted, too amazed to even look back. "And how do you know this?"

"I remember."

At my side, Solas did cast a glance over his shoulder, keen interest etched on his ageless features. "Fascinating," he allowed. "What else do you remember?"

The woman's tone grew all the dimmer. "Not enough."

The elf intuited that he would get no more from her, and so he returned his attention to me. "And what did you learn in Varric's recitation?"

I had half a mind to echo Suredat-an's answer, but those three syllables died in my throat. "I learned that Hawke has suffered more loss than any woman should have to face," I told him. "Though I still believe she may be our only hope of stopping the madness of this war."

Solas retreated into his thoughts for a few moments, and I assumed we would spend much of our journey in silence, but he was not long in returning to discourse. "Is the Champion a mage, by any chance?"

Varric interjected before I could respond. "No," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"Pity," the elf sighed. "If she were, and if you had some of her personal effects to hand, there is a small chance I could have made contact with her in the Fade."

"Shit," Varric huffed. "You're not telling me you're like Feynriel, now?"

"I am afraid I'm unfamiliar with whomever that is," Solas replied, evenly.

"He is a Dreamer," I supplied, remembering the half-elven boy-a man now, most likely, if he still lived-from Varric's story. "Supposedly the first such born for centuries."

" _Fascinating_ ," Solas repeated, in earnest. "...No, however," he said, almost wistfully. "I have had many wonderful dreams, learned much and more of the Fade in my journeys, but I am no _somniari_. That is why I could not have guaranteed making contact."

Varric chuckled, and there was an edge to his breath that I had not heard since I had approached him in the ruined bar he called a home, after our interview had concluded...and after I had decided to bring him across the Waking Sea, whether or not he wished to accompany me. "It's just as well," the dwarf assured the mage. "Hawke would probably have exactly two words for you. _Especially_ if you showed up in one of her dreams."

"The point is academic, I suppose," Solas conceded.

"Nevertheless," I said, "I appreciate the offer."

Idle talk amongst the four-or, rather, the three-of us saw leagues disappear beneath our feet as we descended toward the Hinterlands. We broke a long fast at midday, still afoot to make good time. The shadows grew long ahead of us as the sun began dipping behind the Frostbacks, but we journeyed into the evening, only stopping to make camp when Emilia came up to warn us of exhausting the men and horse who trailed behind. The camp we built was simple, but not austere; two pavilion-style tents were large enough to house we four expeditionaries and our auxiliaries, and a modest fire soon had a hearty stew bubbling to fill our bellies.

I had borne the heaviest armour for the journey, but I was the least fatigued of any of our companions or attendants, and so I volunteered for the first watch. Varric and Solas showed their exhaustion plainly, but Suredat-an showed no more signs of needing rest than I, and so she silently acquiesced to become my watch partner. Emilia and her men were grateful for the chance to rest after the long hours on the road, and the qunari was as indifferent as I had come to expect.

She did not speak over the next hour that we spent alternately patrolling and sitting by the fire, but this was not surprising, as she had not said another word after insisting upon Hawke's lack of participation in the conflict with the mages. Her certainty struck me as notable, perhaps even incongruous, and after that hour of silence, I could not hold my musings to myself any longer. "Did you know Hawke well during your time in Kirkwall?"

Her violet-tinged skin seemed nearly bleached white in the soft light of the campfire's embers. "No," she rumbled, and I assumed that syllable would be the end of it, as it had been for nearly every putative conversation I or anyone else had thus far attempted with the woman. " _Basalit-an_ knew her better."

Somehow that did not surprise me, though I did not yet understand the magnitude of my own misapprehension. "Varric's tale kept the two Champions at arm's length," I observed. "According to him, Bethany was always much closer to Athadra."

Suredat-an's expression remained perfectly inscrutable as she observed the shadows beyond the fire. "Yes," she said. This time she did not elaborate, leaving me to stew over the evident contradiction in her words.

A different curiosity took hold. "How did _you_ come to know the Hero of Ferelden? And revere her so highly?" From what I had gathered from Varric's tale, _basalit-an_ was one of the highest terms of respect a non-qunari could hope to hear from the citizens of the Northern Isles.

"She restored my tongue," the mage told me, though if it were an admission, her tone did not seem to consider it such.

Regardless, I felt a trickle of my old suspicion returning; sewn lips might have been a standard practice for _saarebas_ , but I was certain that having one's tongue removed was far from it. "You delved into forbidden magicks," I said, as I did not need to ask.

"Yes." The firelight flickered in her quicksilver eyes.

I grimaced enough to deform the scar upon my cheek. "Are you a blood mage, then?"

"Yes," came her answer. "But that is not why _arvaarad_ took my tongue."

I felt a churning in my stomach, an old fear mingling with an undeniable fascination at this window into a foreign world. "Blood magic is not forbidden among the qunari?"

"No," Suredat-an allowed. "It is a demand of the Qun."

That information was at once both alarming and reassuring; I was not so naive as to believe every instance of blood magic implied the practitioner was an abomination lying in wait, but I had dealt with a great many blood mages who fit that description not to have some twinge of instinctive suspicion. "Why did your squad leader take your tongue away, then?"

At this the qunari's eyes flicked downward, something approaching emotion colouring the edges of her face. "I saved him," she growled, through clenched teeth. For the first time outside of battle I saw anger in her expression, but this was not the fire of combat; it was a much deeper hatred, a loathing impossible to name.

Without another word or even a backward glance, Suredat-an rose to her feet, stepping away from our place by the fire. She spent the rest of the watch stalking the perimeter of the camp, and even when I joined her, I did not feel it prudent to broach any subject with her. After another hour she seemed as placid as normal, and I was finally beginning to feel the long march behind us, so I ended our watch and we turned in for the night in the smaller of the two pavilion tents, where Solas and Varric lay, lightly snoring.

The next morning, Varric emerged last from our tent, scratching the night's growth of stubble along his jaw that he did not yet see fit to shave. "I've slept rougher in my time," he admitted, somewhat grudgingly.

"I am pleased our accommodation surpasses those of the Deep Roads," I said, and I took a certain amount of satisfaction in the sourness the comment inspired in the dwarf's expression. "Make yourself ready; we shall break our fast upon the road, and I pray we are not too late."

"Where the fuck are we going, anyway?" Varric demanded, as bluntly as ever. "What's in the Hinterlands that's so important we have to walk our boots off?"

"Allies," I answered. "And also enemies." I carried with me writs prepared by Josephine and Leliana, to persuade and conscript aid from the farmers and tradespeople of the Hinterlands; we would need more steady and regular supplies of all manner of goods to Haven if we wished to keep it habitable, and we would need the indulgence-if not support-of the clerics in order to begin operating freely.

The answer seemed to mollify him, vague as it was. Suredat-an was already prepared, as was I; Solas was not long in making ready, and once Varric had finished packing his bedroll, we set off once more. The qunari was as loquacious as ever, and I had no desire to retread our conversation from the night before, still uncertain about her frank admission of blood magic and her claim that it was not at the root of her punishment but rather an integral part of her erstwhile philosophy. But the Qun was almost entirely foreign to me, especially then, as I had not shared yet shared even a single word with one of its adherents.

Our second day afoot was not to be spent in such reflections, however. We were not far removed from the sanctity of the mountains when we came across the first signs of evidence that, though their leaders and representatives had been obliterated above Haven, neither the mages nor the templars were willing to lay down their arms for a settlement that would now never come. An elven homestead lay fallow by the narrow road, freshly burnt and picked over, strewn with bodies that would never be buried; combatants, yes, but also a family of innocent victims who'd never asked to be made to choose sides in a war that they couldn't understand. The sight of a young girl lying prone in the long grass gave me pause, and I wanted to help her in death as I'd failed her in life. But I could not afford to waylay our caravan over my own petty sentimentality, and so I urged us on.

It was not much past midday when we came upon the Imperial Highway, and an unofficial checkpoint manned by templars in badly-cleaned armour. The presumptive leader was an unhelmed man of middle years, his face sallow and eyes blackened by an addiction too long unfed. "Hold," he called, signalling his forces to form up into a solid line as we approached. His expression soured as he saw the Seeker symbol emblazoned upon my breastplate, and I could feel my stomach sinking as I saw the reflexive fear in his face transmute into barely-contained rage. "What business have ye got comin' into the Hinterlands?"

"That is none of your concern," I rebuffed, throwing my own signal to Emilia and her charges to keep well back along the road. I counted seven templars, including our accuser...but if they were each in a state such as he, they would pose little enough trouble for even me to dispatch, much less the four of us who formed the vanguard. "You will let us pass."

"No," came Suredat-an's voice, from behind me, the first time she'd spoken since we parted the previous night's watch. Her words lacked passion, but the woman's tone held unwavering certainty. "They will die."

The helmless templar blinked, evidently surprised that he had not sensed the qunari's magic before this moment, nor that emanating from Solas. But he did not flinch in even momentary fear, as he had done when laying eyes upon me; instead his lips curled, the avarice naked upon his features. "Apostates," he announced, unshouldering his shield and reaching for his blade. "Means ye've got some lyrium in that wagon, I'll wager."

The man's actions were soon echoed by his subordinates, and in another moment, we faced seven lyrium-starved but well-armed and armoured templars. I moved to arm myself as well, but I was surprised to feel Suredat-an's hand on my forearm, keeping me from reaching the blade at my shoulder. "No," she said once again, either to me or to the templars...or, likely, both of us. With two long strides, she reached the midpoint between the templars and our company, giving me the briefest of glances from over her shoulder before she turned to face the blockade.

Templar training dictated but one course of action when faced with an apostate who would not run away: drain the mage's mana with Holy Smites and other techniques until they were incapacitated. I saw all seven of our opponents employ this tactic more-or-less simultaneously, the ritual motions and signs of exertion as familiar to me as breathing; in quick succession, Suredat-an flinched seven times, as the anti-magic coursed over her body and into her nerves, seeking to turn her own mana against her. The assault might even have been enough to kill a human or elven apostate outright, but the qunari hardly stumbled.

I had witnessed blood mages stand fast against such countermeasures, only to open their own veins and lose their minds to the demons that had taught them the craft. I had always put their resistance down to those spirits within them, but Suredat-an provided a counterexample to my previous experience; rather than call upon her blood, or any mana that might have remained, she leapt forward upon the helmless bandit-cum-templar before he had a chance to recover from the exertion of casting his Holy Smite. She took his head in both hands and ripped it sideways with such force that we could all hear the tendons of his throat rip within his very flesh.

As he fell, nerveless, the qunari veered left, into three men still unprepared to deal with her. The first met a fate similar to his now-dead commander, while Suredat-an grasped the remaining to by their throats, driving them into the ground. Her hands burrowed into the meat of their necks, until her fingers each met their opposed thumbs within the men's windpipes. Twin fountains of crimson sprang up around her when she stood, flesh and blood streaming from her bare hands as she turned to the three armoured men who still stood, shocked by the sudden, visceral assault that had seen over half of their company slain in less than the span of five breaths. To their credit, or perhaps to their cost, none of them broke and ran; instead, they readied swords and shields, rallying to the training that had so ill-served their companions. Suredat-an advanced in another bounding leap, and she caught the first man's thrusting arm by his wrist, wrenching his arm with such force that it bent backward at the shoulder and elbow. The next man's sword scraped along her chained flank in an ill-aimed stab that saw her grasp the top of his breastplate in one hand; she tossed him with such force that he tumbled twice in the air, and when he landed, he did not rise again. The final templar finally lost his courage. He threw down his sword and shield, turning to run, but before he could move three strides, Suredat-an was upon him, driving him into the ground with a bare foot to his spineplate. Her foot lifted three times, and three times she brought all of her weight down upon his back, until the steel he wore bowed inward and blood frothed at the corners of his mouth. As he twitched, she returned her attention to the first man whose arm she'd maimed, who was also attempting to flee. She caught him with no more difficulty than his comrade, and he died with his head split open against a stone.

Suredat-an turned back to us, her expression only slightly more animated than it had been on the day we met; she raised her bloodied hands to her face and slowly dragged them down, until eight crimson lines stretched from her forehead to the base of her neck. The red stripes upon her lavender flesh gave a chilling effect to her already-intimidating appearance. "Was that display truly necessary?" I asked, still recovering from the unexpected shock; the whole affair had taken her less time than it would have taken me to slaughter a pig, and she had not used a single thread of magic that I could detect. "We might have attempted to pass without violence."

"No," she said, looking beyond me, beyond Solas, beyond even the wagon and its slack-jawed entourage, none of whom had before witnessed her savagery. Somehow I knew that she looked down the road, all the way back to the homestead we had crossed before, with the dead child that had so disturbed me. "They thought themselves _arvaarad_ ," she said, rolling her shoulder toward the corpses in her wake. "They were mistaken."

I had nothing to say to her pronouncement, and neither did our other two companions, and so we continued onto the Imperial Highway. As the day grew longer, Suredat-an had two more occasions to add to her _vitaar_ , as I would come to learn to term the patterns she drew upon her exposed flesh. Each time, we interrupted a skirmish between desperate templars and harassed mages, and each time, Suredat-an leapt into the thick of the fighting, striking down all who came within her grasp, and many who remained at a distance. She gave no opportunity to surrender, no quarter, and no favour to her fellow mages; it was nearly all the rest of us could do to participate in these battles to keep ourselves from feeling useless. By the time we made camp that night, the better part of Suredat-an's face, neck, arms, and torso were covered in cross-cut geometrical lines, painted in blood. The effect was disquieting upon our troupe, and especially upon the civilians who crossed our path; despite her assertion to the contrary during my interrogation, the longer I came to know her, the more Suredat-an appeared a devotee of the Qun.

I had no notion of how this would affect the whispers that called her the Herald of Andraste, but I was not optimistic in those early days, and events immediately to follow did not inspire confidence.


	4. Chapter 4

Two more days upon the road saw us to the Crossroads, a small settlement that marked a cut in the Imperial Highway, where it split off from the West Road to lead to the regional capital of Redcliffe, where Warden-Commander Athadra had eventually headquartered the Fereldan Grey Wardens. Rumour had it that the Wardens had disappeared from the small city in recent weeks, and if we had more resources to hand, I would have pressed to investigate; as things then stood, however, a great number of bellies relied upon our ability to secure food from the Crossroads and its environs, so I did not press the matter.

The town here had survived the Blight by some miracle, or perhaps by a rare showing of competence on the part of the authorities otherwise responsible for the tragedy at Ostagar. But there it stood, a collection of ramshackle huts radiating outward from the point where the ancient Tevinter pathway intersected the rougher modern road, its paving mostly trod into gravel and dust by the passing of years. A proper Chantry marked the only building of stone, and its walls still bore scorches from the darkspawn, showing that the town's presence might owe more to resilience than simple luck.

Yet it was not darkspawn that we found massed in front of the Chantry's steps in the failing light of evening, but men and women, gathered to witness a spectacle playing out in front of the building's very doors. Yet more templars had gathered, and these were no mere bandits in search of liquid magic to feed their interminable thirst; as we four muscled our way to the fore of the crowd, I could see by the looks in their eyes that the armed and armoured men were committed, true believers in the cause they had taken up since abandoning their vows to serve and protect the folk of the Chantry. One in particular commanded attention, standing halfway down the steps and addressing the crowd. "...And now you will all see the error of your ways," he announced, standing tall, his armour gleaming in the midday sun. "Magic has infested this land for far too long, until even those charged with constraining it allow it to pass beneath their noses, unremarked upon. _No longer_."

He stood aside, and my breath leapt from my chest in a gasp; behind him, two women had been forced to their knees on the very top step, held there by a pair of templars each. The leftmost woman wore the vestments of a revered mother, and the rich, brown skin of her face was broken and marred by a purple bruise, split and scabbed over with blood. Her companion had seen even rougher treatment, and from what I could see beyond the bloodstains, her own robe was that of a mage. The mage's head hung loosely from her shoulders, her flaxen hair obscuring her face. The strands hung together in ropes, bonded by crimson. Rage took me, and I stepped forward, onto the bottommost stair. "What is the meaning of this?" I demanded, pushing my voice with an authority I had not felt since the White Spire's denouement. "Release these prisoners. Now."

The templar on the midsteps took note of me, as a hound might take note of a fox at the gatepost. "Look what we have here," he said, still addressing the gathered folk behind me. "An avatar of the very cancer we seek to excise."

I sensed movement to my left, and by instinct I threw out my hand, clapping it hard to Suredat-an's midsection; by Andraste's grace, the woman stood fast, and it was a fortunate thing, for the men holding the prisoners had tensed, the blades at the women's backs arching with more deadly purpose. The captive mage shivered in fear, still hunched, but the Chantry priest simply looked at the templar who spoke for his band, an expression of the purest pity in her eyes. I shared a glance with Suredat-an, who gave me the smallest of nods, and so I lowered my hand. "What offence have these women done to merit such rough treatment? A revered mother of the Chantry, especially?"

"This one abandoned such titles as soon as she harboured an apostate within these holy walls," the templar replied. "And she has multiplied her offence by forcing these humble townsfolk to undergo the beast's wicked touch. We shall presently address the balancing of these crimes, before tending to your own." His eyes were taken with me and Suredat-an, disgust hardening to a mask as he drew his sword. His attention was so taken that he did not notice Varric unshouldering his crossbow, behind and to my right, until the bolt found his left eyesocket.

My own eyes fell upon the revered mother and the sword at her back. I saw it tremble, and even as I leapt for the stairs, I knew I could not make it in time; surely it would plunge into her shoulder at any moment, inflicting a wound not even the best of healers could mend in time. But as my feet found first one step and then the next, the blade only increased its quaking, and I lifted my eyes another bare inch to see the cause: the templars that had held the priest were writhing, rooted to their positions, heads thrown back in a silent scream, the veins within their necks bubbling as their blood boiled within them. I halted in my ascent, my intestines turning to ice, and I had but to glance over my shoulder to verify what I feared...Suredat-an had used her nails-her _claws_ -to open the flesh of her forearms, and now she used her own blood to command the vivid crimson within the templars' veins, to horrified gasps and wails from the crowd.

My hesitation was not without its cost, and I was jolted back to my purpose by an anguished cry from the top of the steps; there, the two remaining templars drove their blades into the captive mage and sought to turn them upon the still-kneeling mother. My mind cleared of other concerns and I rushed up the remaining steps, bringing my sword and shield to bear upon the vile men who looked to murder another innocent woman. They were not without skill of their own, and the footing was slick with blood, but I positioned myself between them and the newly-freed priest. As I engaged, Varric riddled them with crossbow bolts and Solas rained arcane energy upon them, and soon enough they joined their companions.

I resheathed my sword, wet with human blood for the first time since I had left Kirkwall, and turned to the Chantry woman. She knelt, still, but her posture had shifted from that of captive to one of prayer. It did not surprise me that she offered benediction to the fallen men around her, and her task was not complete until she had shuffled over to the mage's side and given her another prayer to see her on her way to the Maker's side. The woman rose, shakily, and I moved to help see her to her feet. "You have my thanks," she said, once she was steadied. "Both for my balance and my life. Though I fear the company you keep might appear...questionable." She offered a gesture to the crowd, which was well on its way to dispersal, many glances of fear shot at the qunari mage whose arms were still moist with her own blood, her face and torso yet coated with that of her enemies."Is this the fabled Herald of Andraste, come down from the mountain?"

"It is," I confirmed. "We have come to offer aid...and to seek it, Revered Mother. Forgive me, but I do not believe we have met."

"We have not," the woman said, managing to radiate quiet dignity in spite of the injuries done both to her honour and her body. "Yet I know you by sight and by reputation as the Right Hand of the Divine." There was but the merest flicker of steel in her oak-brown eyes. "Tell me, Cassandra Pentaghast, how is it that you stand here breathing, while Justinia does not?"

My gut clenched, but I held off the wave of grief that threatened. Battle-scarred and hardened as I was, I cast glances to the corpses cooling around us, though the revered mother seemed serene amongst the carnage, her question the sole concern at issue. "It was divine providence, and the Divine's word, that saw me en route to joining her when tragedy struck." I gestured to Varric, still at the foot of the stair, gathered with my other two companions. "I was bid to find the Champion of Kirkwall, a task at which I failed, but I came across a companion of hers who spun the tale of her rise to power."

"And her fall," the mother concluded, with a reasonable nod.

"As you say," I allowed, with a grimace. "Yet Justinia thought she might be pressed to serve, if located. I was en route with the dwarf so that he might give his tale to Justinia in person...and so that she might convince him to divulge Hawke's location, when I myself could not." It pained me to admit my failure in this august company, even amidst the blood that soaked our steps.

The mother, who still had not divulged her name, began descending the stairs toward the three waiting travelers and the few villagers who straggled. "And what was the Divine's aim in conscripting the Champion of Kirkwall?" She asked, her gaze falling heavily on Varric.

He looked supremely uncomfortable beneath the woman's scrutiny. "Look, lady," he gruffed, "I wasn't exactly invited to the party where the Seeker got her marching orders. I didn't even want to _come_."

"And yet you remain," she observed, very nearly serene.

"Of his own free will," I supplied, coming up beside the woman. "Justinia envisioned a new Inquisition, should the Conclave fail to produce a favourable result." I felt no shame in the admitting of it, as even now letters were flying upon the wings of Leliana's ravens, looking to secure our broader position. "And so here we stand." _Still in need of an Inquisitor_. "The aid of this town and of your own person would be most welcome."

The woman took her time in replying, considering heavily the implications of what we had revealed; her eyes moved from myself to Suredat-an, and thence to Solas, before a final, mourning glance passed over her shoulder, to the mage I could not save. "These lands have been riven by war and conflict," she allowed, standing with such dignity that I could hardly bear to look her in the eye. "Factions yet roam the countryside like packs of wolves, picking it clean and killing any who oppose them. Mages shelter abominations among their number; rogue templars murder anyone suspected of sympathy toward their so-called foes. It is chaos and madness. Tell me, Seeker Pentaghast, what can eleven soldiers, skilled as you might be, hope to accomplish by entering this fray?" I could tell by her accent that she was not Fereldan, and the hue of her skin suggested she came from Rivain, or perhaps even the unruly isle of Estwatch...but the way that she looked upon the few villagers who remained, and, moreover, the way they looked upon _her_ , I could tell that this woman had lived and worked and cared for this land for a great many years. "And what do the faithful here stand to lose by throwing in our lot with you?"

That she had neither spat at us for heresy nor fallen to kneel at our feet upon learning of our purpose in satisfying Justinia's will bespoke a practicality somewhat rare among the clerics of my experience. My lips parted as I prepared to champion our cause to her, but to my great surprise, it was Suredat-an's gruff voice that rose to meet the challenge. "We do not stand alone," she rumbled, speaking her first words since rising that morning. "Dozens gather upon the mountain, more by the day. More will keep coming, until they are a horde." Her quicksilver eyes shifted to me. "Those who lead them will need guidance, to keep the horde from becoming a mob."

Solas, Varric, and I stood dumbfounded at this unprompted torrent of syllables, but the still-nameless revered mother was not yet familiar with the qunari's taciturn nature, and so she did not remark upon it other than to offer a reply. "You seem confident in your prediction, yet you have performed illicit arts to the witness of many here, vile magic that has brought ruin to many of its practitioners wherever Andraste's holy word holds sway." Her tone held no venom, though whether it was out of gratitude for the specific application of the qunari's controversial act toward saving her own life, or more of the woman's evident practicality, I could not tell. "What makes you think you will still be counted Her herald, once news of this day spreads from house to house, and village to village, so soon after the Divine's murder at the hands of yet more magic?"

In answer, Suredat-an raised her left arm, bloodied fingers laced in a fist. Eerie green light pulsed from her wrist and the palm of her hand, light to match the arresting glow of the Breach, still visible on the western horizon. Steam rose between her fingers from the magic's heat evaporating the wetness still upon her flesh.

"Her magic seals the rifts," Solas volunteered, stepping from around Varric, leaning upon his staff as though it were a simple walking stick. "That is something no other faction can boast, and it will make all the difference. It is true that the qunari practices magicks beyond the countenance of the Chantry," he allowed, making a face, as though even an indirect mention of blood magic were distasteful to him, "yet she has trucked with no demon in order to gain such knowledge, and so far as we have witnessed, she has only ever lifted her hands against those who would see the Veil further sundered."

"It is true," I offered. "I have seen with my own eyes the horrors that magic can inflict in this world, and yet I have faith in the justness of our cause, and the greatest confidence in this woman's ability to help see it fulfilled. But her words have even greater merit than her strength, or the mark upon her arm; whether or not we are hated, or feared, we are the only hope this land has to turn the tide against the demons that plague it...and therefore we will draw even more followers, eager for glory, or security, or simple vengeance. We will need your counsel, Revered Mother, as well as your support, if we are to navigate the course of days yet laid before us."

"What you ask is no easy thing," the priest observed, giving us all a measured look, before her eyes settled over Suredat-an. "The templars fight for a world expunged of magic, even the most benign of healing practitioners." She paused for but a heartbeat, her face drawing tighter. "Mages fight for a world free of the Chantry's shackles, regardless of the danger it proves to bring to us all. Tell me, Herald, for what cause do _you_ fight?"

"Order," I said at once. "So that all may live in peace."

The smile that she graced me with was as indulgent as it was obstinate. "I well understand your motives, Cassandra Pentaghast," she allowed. "Thus I did not ask you why _you_ fight." She tilted her head up once more, though she did not show any hint that the qunari's great height was at all impressive. "What drives you to risk your life? To take those of others?" She spoke as though the balance of the world depended upon the larger woman's answer. For all I knew, it very well did.

Suredat-an stood a statue, and for a moment it seemed that she would sooner crumble beneath the ravages of time than offer her voice for a response. "I am _adaar_ ," she said. "Weapon, you say." Her quicksilver eyes fell closed. "I fight as the rain falls, or as the sun rises," she went on, before reclaiming the cleric's gaze once again. "Because I cannot do otherwise."

Such an answer, as fascinating as I found it, was one I feared would displease its audience. Yet the revered mother nodded, her face a mask of sober contemplation. "I believe you," she said, at last. "I see great violence when I look into your eyes, and pain, but no avarice. Perhaps the Maker has put me in your path for a reason, child." Such speculation did not seem to concern Suredat-an, for she offered nothing beyond stoicism, and the priest looked once more to me. "You may call me Mother Giselle. I will help you however I can, in the days ahead."

Mother Giselle buttressed her offer by allowing our party to take residence in the Chantry for the night. I feared that Suredat-an would balk at sleeping beneath the roof of a holy place, as she had shirked the dormitory in Haven that I shared with Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana, preferring instead the very hut in which she had been incarcerated upon our first meeting. Yet she entered the Chantry without complaint, and made a bed of old blankets in one of the alcoves, while the rest of us made do with cots or our own bedrolls.

The next day I led Varric, Solas, and Suredat-an into a foray south, while Emilia and her guards began establishing the Inquisition's presence in the Crossroads itself, under Mother Giselle's watchful eye. Their mission was to build good will by protecting against further incursions while we forged more deeply into the Hinterlands in order to assess the danger posed by the resumption of the war and the spreading of the rifts. We were on the road for little more than an hour before we came to another scene of carnage, still in progress; rather than templars, this time it was a trio of mages, fighting against a pair of dwarven women with kitchen knives and little but their race's vaunted magical resistance to defend themselves with.

I did not bother holding Suredat-an back from intervening in this conflict, and she showed the aggressors no more mercy than she had the templars in our two previous battles; indeed, the mages were mangled and dead before the rest of us could properly ready our weapons, and the qunari had more crimson ink for her designs. When I approached, I saw that the two dwarves had not lowered their guard, regarding the much taller woman quite warily. "I assure you that we mean you no harm," I said, re-sheathing my unbloodied sword and inspecting the fresh corpses with some interest.

The dwarves appeared of kin, though one had hair as black as night, while the other's head was crested with auburn, her cheeks dusted with a healthy coating of freckles. The freckled one was the first to speak. "They don't look like any templars I've ever seen," she whispered, still holding her knife up, her eyes not straying from the Seeker emblem upon my breastplate.

"We are not," I exclaimed. "And while the qunari and the elf are apostates, they are not bandits, and neither am I. My name is Cassandra Pentaghast, and we seek only to end this war and mend the sky."

The darker dwarf was the first to lower her makeshift weapon, letting out her breath with a long sigh. "Well, if you're lying, there's not much we'd be able to do to stop you from killing us and looting our corpses, anyway." She gives Suredat-an a more thoughtful look. "You say this one's an apostate?" On my nod of affirmation, she let out a low whistle. "Damn...I didn't even notice her use any magic to take out those bastards."

"They were not worthy," the qunari supplied, evidently finished refreshing the red crosshatching of her torso.

Slowly, inevitably, the more wary dwarf lowered her own knife, but she did not relax her grip upon its hilt even as it hung by her side. "I'm Lace," she breathed. "Lace Harding. This is my sister, Damasque."

From my left, Varric let out a low chuckle. "Harding, huh? Either of you lovely ladies been to Kirkwall's Hightown?"

Both women blinked. Damasque, the dark-haired sister, shook her head. "Can't say that we have, mister. Why?"

I felt the grunt of disgust rising in my throat even before the archer responded. "Because you'd be Harding in...oh, nevermind," he allowed, when I could no longer contain myself.

"As I said," I went on, "we only desire to restore order in the wake of the Divine's death. You are free to go on your way; we will neither follow nor hinder you."

Lace looked out upon the road, where a handcart had been upended, its contents strewn over yards. "We...weren't going anywhere, in particular," she admitted. "Got thrown out of our house by a bunch of mages. And now we almost died from a bunch of _other_ mages…"

"Thank you for stopping that, by the way," her sister amended. "Fucking mages."

"It is clear that neither of you are of the Stone," Solas announced, his tone curious rather than judgmental. "Unless a gang of apostates has stormed Orzammar and carved a slice out of the Diamond Quarter for themselves, that is."

"I'd like to see them try," Lace hissed, but it was clear that her demeanor was calming the more we all spoke, and the prospect of returning to the road held little appeal. "We were born on a homestead in the south of here, but when the Blight came, our aunt and mother got caught in it…"

When she paused, her sister picked up the thread, sharing the thought. "Papa brought us to Redcliffe, and we thought we'd be safe, there...but then those undead monsters came and took Papa away. We thought we were gonna die, too, until the Grey Wardens showed up and saved us."

"When the Warden-Commander turned Redcliffe into the capital of a new teyrnir and became the teyrna," Lace went on, "things settled down. We had a good life, and didn't think anything about all the Warden mages around. But they're all gone, now, and a bunch of assholes from Tevinter have set up shop in the castle." She shook her head, grimacing. "There isn't any room in the village now for anyone who doesn't want anything to do with the war...so we left."

"Thought we'd try to settle in the Crossroads," Damasque continued, as I processed the implications of what her sister had just casually revealed; the new political reality that Warden-Commander Athadra had wrought in Ferelden after the Fifth Blight was, apparently, undone...or soon would be, when King Alistair learnt of what had become of the Teyrnir of Redcliffe. But the dwarf was oblivious to my thoughts. "Then a bunch of templars showed up and tried to take it over, so they'd have a base to counteract the 'Vints in Redcliffe."

I shared a look with Suredat-an, who did not need to speak to convince me that she and I were of a mind; the scant few templars we had overwhelmed could not have represented the totality of the investment in the Crossroads, if it was to be a true counterweight to a castle-town. "There'll be more templars sooner or later," Varric observes. "Looks like our little field trip's getting cut short."

"We must go back," I agreed, already turning toward the road. "Thank you for your time, and your information."

"Wait!" It was Damasque, the brash one, who spoke up once again. "You can't just leave us here!"

Lace sighed. "What my sister means is...can we help? I mean, if you're really interested in making the world go back to the way it was before everyone went crazy…if you're fighting templars and mages both, well..."

"...And we've got nowhere else to go," Damasque finished. "We won't slow you down. Promise."

A dozen reasons for a denial loomed in the back of my mind, but I could not hesitate in getting back to the Crossroads, to Emilia, to Mother Giselle. "Very well," I judged, as I moved into a double-time march. "Come along, but we will not collect you if you fall behind."


	5. Chapter 5

By the time we returned to the Crossroads, it was nearly too late to be of any use; at least a score of templars had infiltrated the unwalled town, and these were of the same calibre as the few that we had only so recently subdued. The scant few we had left to guard the Chantry were locked in fierce combat when we struck up the main thoroughfare, and though I did not discover it until later, Emilia and half of her number already lay dead upon the bloody steps. Even with the addition of the two dwarves to our company, and counting the surviving recruits we'd brought from Haven, we were outnumbered by three apiece. I will not recount each blow, especially because partway through I was overtaken by four determined templar hunters. I lost consciousness with a sword skewering my abdomen, and as the last of the light faded from my eyes, I had no expectation of waking from that final night.

The hours which passed might have been an instant or an eternity for all I was aware, but eventually a dull ache grew out of the blackness into which I had dissolved. It grew sharper by degrees, until fire came to define my existence, and I came awake to the sound of my own screams echoing off of the Chantry's stone walls. My world turned from black to white in an instant, and a strong hand pushed me down into a hard cot as the all-consuming agony took shape and form, settling back down into a manageable torture. My vision cleared enough to show me Suredat-an, her face a mask of dried blood, her hand firmly upon my breast to keep me from rising. "Give…" I retched, still resisting the woman's downward pressure. My bare fingers closed on nothing but air as I gripped them. "Give...me a sword…"

Her quicksilver eyes shone in the torchlight, but rather than offer the offensive reply I had heard so often, she merely shook her head. The voice that spoke reason came from the periphery of my vision, and belonged to Mother Giselle. "You have held a sword long enough for one night, child. Now you must rest, gather your strength. We have a long journey ahead of us."

At that point I doubt I could have even stood erect, much less joined battle. As I regained my senses, I understood that we were all lodged in the village's Chantry, where we'd spent the night previous. A great many of the denizens of the Crossroads had joined us, presumably for the relative security of the building's stone walls and thick doors, which had been barred as a precaution. "What...happened?" My words still came slowly, as though my mind were a mire. "How am I not dead? How are we all not dead?"

When it became clear I would not attempt to rise, Suredat-an pulled back, while the revered mother took her place by my side. "It was the Herald," she said, and the frankness in her voice did not rob the title of earnestness. "Once you fell, she took on the rage and strength of a cavalcade. None stood against her, and only a scant few survived to flee."

"No," came the qunari's refrain, rumbling over my ears like a distant thunderclap. "None will breathe in a fortnight."

Mother Giselle regarded her with an arched brow. "You seem terribly certain of that," she pronounced. "How can you know?" I could no longer see Suredat-an's face, but she did not bother to verbalise a response, and so the revered mother returned her attention to me; I knew, or at least suspected, that the answer lay in the qunari's tainted blood. By common consent among myself, Leliana, and Josephine, we agreed to keep Suredat-an's status as a Grey Warden a secret. Mother Giselle did not press the point, however, and so I did not need to burden my conscience with a lie, save one of omission. "Once the templars had fallen or fled," she went on, "the Herald collected you from the lane and brought you here without any delay. I have never seen such diligent healing in all my years. She did not leave your side until this very moment."

As the woman spoke, I could hardly believe her words, and when she was finished I hazarded lifting my head to better look at the qunari who'd been my saviour. "Is this true, Suredat-an?"

Her face was impassive, and she appeared to be making a study of the nearby wall. "...Yes," she whispered, her voice more tentative than I'd ever heard it. "I am sorry, _basvaarad_."

A lance of agony pierced my abdomen again, but it was a mere shadow of what must have passed through my body while I had been unconscious. From what I knew of healing, the process concentrated all of the pain from the healed wound into a few hours as opposed to days or weeks, and the mage performing the spell would feel a significant echo within their own flesh. It could not have been a trivial undertaking for her, in light of that. "It is I who owe the apology, Suredat-an," I managed, though my agony soon dragged me down into the cot's firm embrace. "And...thank you. For saving my life." Gratitude mixed with confusion within me, as I was uncertain just what the qunari had to feel sorry over.

Mother Giselle palmed over my sweat-slicked forehead. "She certainly did," the woman affirmed. "But you may not keep it beyond tonight if you do not rest. There is much work to do, come the dawn."

Fatigue threatened to pull me back into unconsciousness, but I resisted. "What...will you do, Mother?"

Her face set as she looked out over the Chantry's gathered refugees; a tilt of my head and a second glance showed more than I had first surmised. She spared me a smile that was not without a certain cunning as she looked upon me once more. "Like you, I and my surviving flock owe our lives to the Herald, and many here believe her worthy of that title. We will follow her."

Suredat-an stood, and her great height dominated my field of vision. "I follow her," she rumbled, inclining her head toward me. Then she turned, but did not move away, and I realised that she stood guard. Somehow, the thought helped me succumb to my exhaustion, and I stole several hours of productive rest.

When I woke, I was well enough to walk, at least as healthy as most of the civilians who followed us. What few horses and livestock could be found were pressed into hauling supplies, and where eleven souls had descended from Haven, nearly seventy returned. Most had great cause to feel dejected by fate and spurned by the Maker, yet nearly all showed their faith was more resilient than I had feared, and though Suredat-an paid it no mind, it was clear that they had lain their trust in her as their deliverance from the chaos. Most of them were farmers and merchants, with only a few notable exceptions.

Chief among these was a taciturn man who came to my attention the evening of second day of our journey from the Crossroads, while the echoes of my agonising ordeal still reverberated within my ribs; he came to the front of my tent, bracketed by Suredat-an and Varric. The dwarf made the introductions. "Looks like we've found somebody with a bit of skill," he said. "And he's willing to fight for the Inquisition, if you'll have him."

The bearded man grunted, looking up to the taller qunari. "She says it's your decision, Seeker," he allowed, with a respectful nod to me. "Name's Blackwall."

I saw that he wore padded armour still bloodstained, presumably from the battle at the Crossroads, though whether the padding had then been overlain with templar plate I could not tell. My eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You say you've skill at arms," I probed. "Where did you learn to fight?"

Blackwall's reply took me by surprise. "I'm a Grey Warden, ser," he confessed. "Been combing Ferelden and the Free Marches for years, recruiting. Thought I might have some promising candidates from the Crossroads when this business with the templars turned sour."

I looked to Suredat-an for some confirmation of the man's claim, but her expression was inscrutable, as always...and if Blackwall was not aware of her own status with the order whose membership he claimed, I did not wish to enlighten him. "Very well," I allowed, my attention refocusing on the newcomer. "Our quarrel is not with the darkspawn, as loathsome as they are," I pointed out. "Why would you abandon that work to fight with us?"

"The dwarf tells me the Wardens have disappeared from Ferelden," Blackwall gruffed. "With the Divine's death, that kind of coincidence can raise questions...and being absent is almost as bad as being involved, as far as these things go." He shook his head emphatically. "I can guarantee you that no Warden had anything to do with what happened at Haven...and it'd be a dereliction of my duty to let people whisper otherwise."

The man's pronouncement and his regard for the Herald confirmed his ignorance of her identity as a Grey Warden, but from what I knew of the order and its commitment to secrecy, such anonymity was not precisely remarkable. Blackwall's earnest defence of the virtue of the Wardens was remarkable, however. At first blush, I thought it verged on naïveté...though I could not fault a man for holding fast to ideals, when the very ground beneath our feet became less certain by the day. Perhaps sensing my hesitation, Blackwall proved that his mind had a practical bent, as well. "Grey Wardens can be useful to your Inquisition, as well," he claimed. "Beyond my experience, I mean. We've got ancient treaties that can compel assistance from different nations and races.

"During a Blight," I countered, letting my eyes fall to the dirt between my knees as a dull ache twisted at my intestines. "But the Blight is over." Unless some of the troubling reports of increased darkspawn activity I'd heard shortly before the eruption of the Mage Rebellion had meant more than everyone had thought at the time. Even so, the evident abandonment of Ferelden by the Wardens after Commander Athadra's disappearance was troubling. "Do you know where your fellows are, now?"

The presumptive Warden seemed taken off his guard by the unexpected query, but he recovered with a shrug. "I've been roving for years on my own," he pointed out, "only accompanying recruits back to the gates once or twice a year for intermittent updates." He shook his head. "Maybe there was a change to the mission and a runner got lost, or something. I'm pretty hard to find, by design. So...no, ser. I've no idea where the rest of the Wardens are."

I was not entirely satisfied with his response, but I had no reason to turn away another skilled blade. "Alright," I allowed. "You may accompany us to Haven, and there your skill will be evaluated by our master of arms...we will find a place commensurate with your abilities," I vowed.

Blackwall inclined his head. "I'm grateful, Seeker," he exclaimed. "And I won't let you down."

I dismissed him with a grunt. In spite of my misgivings, Blackwall's skill at arms and his earnestness earned him a place in our van, if not precisely in our midst.

The addition of Lace and her sister to our company proved of good fortune, as well, as the dwarves knew the ways of navigating the Hinterlands better than any of those ostensibly in charge of our column of refugees. We did not travel long upon the Imperial Highway, as the risk of banditry and resumed conflict was simply too great, but with their help we made good time through the less-traveled paths of forest and field. Soon enough the caravan reached Haven, with only a few more casualties along the way.

I led Suredat-an to the Chantry immediately, while Varric and Solas took charge of settling our newest pilgrims in the now-burgeoning town. Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen were not long in joining us in the chamber which had once been the local revered mother's private study, which we had repurposed for councils of strategy. We arrayed ourselves around the great oaken table as I relayed to them the events I have here laid out, and none interrupted me until my recounting was complete.

Cullen, looking as grim as I had ever seen him, was the first to speak. "We shall need a new requisition officer," he observed, taking note of Emilia's death. "I shall draw up a list of candidates from those training." He paused, then, gathering himself with a deep breath. "Our first mission was a failure," he pronounced, and I could not say that I disagreed with him.

Suredat-an, however, was as contrary as we had come to expect. "We live," she pointed out, after her customary refrain of _No_. At this she gave me a significant look, and I could only nod, conceding the point.

Josephine agreed. "It was not the outcome we had hoped for," she conceded, "but we have increased our capacity and the Herald's reputation. The addition of a Grey Warden who is active in the order might be of some advantage, as well."

The qunari beside me had been silent when Blackwall had first joined our company, but she did not hold her tongue now. "He is not."

"...Excuse me?" Leliana ventured, leaning upon her hand, planted on the tabletop. "He wishes to remain secretive?"

"No," Suredat-an rumbled. "He is not Grey Warden." The crusted mask of blood on her face cracked with the force of her grimace. "He is _hissrad_."

The word stuck in my memory. "That is what you call Varric," I observed. "What does it mean?"

She did not blink as she looked down upon me. "Liar."

I could only grimace at the aptness of the title's application to the dwarven storyteller; indeed, the woman had never called him anything else. It had sublimated beneath my notice in the time the two had been in my company. "Why did you not speak on this before?" I demanded, taking the truth of her convictions as a matter of course, and as confirmation to my own initial conception of the man's claims.

" _Hissrad_ can be useful," she pointed out. "If I spoke, all would know him so. Now it is only us."

Josephine's eyebrows drew together. "That is very wise," she observed. "We may yet make use of those treaties that the man mentioned, and now we have full knowledge of the risks involved. This is not a Blight, thank the Maker," she allowed, glancing to me to pre-emptively silence my objection that had already been aired. "Yet it may well be the end of the world, just the same...and I believe that I can get some mileage out of that elision."

"I agree," Leliana affirmed. "During my travels, I have had cause to become acquainted with a few of these treaties, and can offer some advice as to their style, and their limits." Her eyes narrowed as she considered the qunari's words from a few moments before. "Does he truly not have the sense of the darkspawn taint about him?"

"He does not."

The spymaster clipped a nod. "I suspected as much," she said, and then glanced around the table at the rest of us. "When I traveled with the Hero of Ferelden, I came to understand that Grey Wardens can sense the presence of darkspawn...and the presence of one another, through the corruption in their blood."

This revelation was not precisely shocking to me, but even so, I did not see the point in belaboring it. Josephine was much quicker to converge upon Leliana's insight. "That means that any true Warden will be able to tell the Herald is of their rank," she observed, frowning. "Such a discovery could...complicate matters."

"I don't see how," Cullen said, once again registering his apathy toward our mutual decision to conceal Suredat-an's status as a Warden. "If this Blackwall fellow can enlist the aid of others by using the vague threat of Grey Warden treaties, I've no notion as to why the Herald cannot do the same."

Leliana took a steadying breath, as though preparing for the fifth time to explain a simple fact to a small child. "There are very few qunari Grey Wardens," she said. "Fewer still who were born in Seheron. If either of these facts became generally known, or even suspected, it would be all too easy to tie the Herald to the downfall of Kirkwall." She shook her head. "We cannot risk it."

Josephine nodded emphatically. "I cannot overstate how devastating such suspicions would be to our cause," she reiterated. "No...it is good that we have this man. I suggest keeping him close, especially if you expect to cross paths with Wardens. It is just possible they will believe him to be the one they sense, especially if it is an encounter in passing." Suredat-an was stoic as ever, but she did not appear obstinate, and so the ambassador went on. "And to Leliana's other point, of obscuring your origins...I believe I have come up with a plausible story to explain where you come from."

The qunari did not appear to move, but a slight frisson of disapproval radiated out from her, nonetheless.

The Antivan woman cleared her throat and continued. "Yes, well...it is simple enough. You were a _vashoth_ mercenary, born here in Thedas proper. Your company was hired by the Conclave to help provide security, which neatly explains your presence, and the lack of survivors to contradict the story. If you are amenable, Herald, this is the tale we shall put out to the world, and especially to our prospective allies."

"I am not _hissrad_ ," Suredat-an countered, crossing her broad arms. "And I am not _vashoth_."

It was Josephine's turn to play at patience, and she gave the taller woman an indulgent smile. "Of course not, Herald. Yet you yourself said that lies could be useful, and this one is very important. And, unless you have become much more loquacious in your time on the road, I doubt you will have to embellish it personally." Her face grew serious once more. "Do you agree?" As slowly as a melting block of ice, Suredat-an nodded, without verbalising a response. "Excellent," Josephine allowed, her smile returning. "Now, there is just the matter of your name. _Suredat-an_ is simple enough for a pronomen, but you will need a cognomen at the very least if you are to be taken seriously by nobles and politicians."

I could not keep the grunt of disgust from clawing out of my throat; my great family had blessed me with a panoply of names, most of which were worse than useless. But I could not deny the convention, and did not try to. "She is not wrong," I told the qunari, who appeared skeptical. "The nobility of Thedas love to have extra names they can dress up and bandy about. Anyone content with a personal title is a peasant, unless she is wealthy. You will need to pick a second name."

The woman's decision was a few breaths in coming. " _Adaar_ ," she settled, solemnly. _Weapon_.

I could only nod, having learnt the word's meaning during Suredat-an's introduction to Mother Giselle. "It will do," I pronounced, returning my attention to the humans in attendance. "Is there anything else?"

"I believe we must address this disturbing turn the templars have taken," Cullen broached. "Attacking villages, nearly murdering revered mothers...this is madness, pure and simple. Even if the reports from Redcliffe are true, that doesn't justify the measures they've taken."

I could not disagree, but I had no idea how to solve the problem, save one templar at a time. "What do you propose?"

"We must confront Lord Seeker Lucius Corin about these gross abuses," the soldier pressed. "He is ostensibly at the head of the templars since their schism with the Chantry, is he not?"

Leliana chuckled derisively. "You speak of madness, and then posit we assault the very head of one of the warring factions who are united only in their opposition to our growing influence?"

He rolled his eyes. "It's not like we have to abandon Haven and lay siege to Therinfal Redoubt," he snorted.

The placename held no meaning to me. "What do you speak of?" I demanded. "Where is this redoubt, and why should Lucius be found there?"

Josephine lifted the veil of my ignorance. "Rumour has it that the stronghold is being fortified as the templar headquarters in Ferelden...possibly in all of southern Thedas, since the mages have chosen to make their stand in Redcliffe." She shook her head, in consternation rather than disagreement. "It is likely the order to subdue the Crossroads came from there."

"Yet it is not assailable," Leliana insisted. "Not by us...not yet. We have yet to secure our own position here, first. And in any case, my agents inform me that the Lord Seeker is not even in Ferelden at the moment; he heads to Val Royeaux."

That news surprised me, along with the other two humans at the table. "You are certain?"

"I am confident."

"To what purpose, then?" I asked. After the death of Lambert van Reeves and the destruction of the White Spire by some then-unknown force, Lucius had assumed the mantle of Lord Seeker, and his first official act had been to take command of the templar order and pre-emptively declare war on the Circles. The move had surprised many, myself most of all; Lucius had always been cautious, stern yet steady in his treatment of mages and mundanes alike. Yet the man who now led the Seekers, whose rash acts had caused me to abandon my vows and head across the Waking Sea with Cullen and Varric in tow, bore precious little resemblance to the Lucius of my acquaintance. "He must know it will not be a hero's welcome he shall receive."

"I would not be so certain," Josephine cautioned. "The nobility and clergy in the city are desperate for some measure of stability to return, and they may be willing to capitulate to any number of demands." Her eyes glinted in a canny manner which belied the graceful smile she normally wore like a mask. "Meanwhile, left unchecked, he might fill their heads with any tales about us that he wishes." Then she nodded, as though a decision had already been made. "I strongly advise taking the Herald to see if we might answer any slanders the upper classes have already begun consuming."

I could tell that Leliana was still disagreeable, but Cullen appeared grateful for the diplomat's support. One glance at Suredat-an reaffirmed her indifference, or perhaps her deference to my own decision. "Very well," I allowed. "I will take Suredat-an and Varric with me to Val Royeaux...Blackwall as well, if he will come." I grimaced. "I cannot guarantee he will return, if his self-professed skills are found wanting." It was only fair to warn our diplomat and spymaster that their intricate plans might well come to naught. "Cullen, in our absence you must redouble efforts to establish a meaningful presence in the Hinterlands; we cannot afford another retreat. Make use of the Hardings, and Solas."

The former templar clipped a nod. "It will be done, Cassandra," he assured me. "On your return, we will be prepared to resettle the Crossroads, if not take our grievances to Therinfal Redoubt itself."

Exhaustion from the forced march, and my barely-healed injuries besides, threatened to overwhelm me, but I maintained my feet with the help of the sturdy table. "Then we will take rest," I announced, "and leave at daybreak tomorrow."


	6. Chapter 6

The journey to Val Royeaux was lengthy, but not especially onerous; we traveled afoot to Jader, skirmishing with combatants and sealing the occasional rift, and there we procured mounts to further our efforts. They were poor beasts, as the best of their kind had already been consumed during the Orlesian civil war which had not yet been concluded. Still, they saw the five of us into the Heartlands with little complaint. If I imagined that news of the Inquisition's declaration would be virtually unknown on the far side of the Frostbacks, I was much mistaken; hardly a hamlet we passed failed to give us the occasional awed whisper or, more frequently, a glare of suspicion from a peasant therein. The rifts had paid no more heed to the barrier of the mountains than had rumour, either, and we were given ample opportunity to prove and expand upon our legend in the leagues beyond Jader.

When we arrived at the great city at the heart of Celene's troubled empire, we discovered that Leliana's intelligence was accurate; not only had the templars returned to the streets of Val Royeaux, one of the Nightingale's agents confirmed that Lord Seeker Lucius had been seen in their company. And that was not all; as Solas, Blackwall, Suredat-an, Varric, and I ventured into the _Cirque de Notre Dame du Sacré Cœr,_ where chanters could be heard reciting Andraste's blessed words day and night, we found Chancellor Roderick busy engaging an aged revered mother who had been of too little note to attend the Conclave, and yet found herself the seniormost of her kind still breathing in the Capitol.

" _Voilà_ ," the male bureaucrat exclaimed, in passable Orlesian. " _Les apostats et leurs flagorneurs marchent en plein air, sans honte._ "

Being, so far as I knew then, the only one of our number who spoke the Imperial tongue, I could not but offer rebuttal for all of us. " _Vous avez tort,_ " I corrected him. " _Nous ne sommes pas les apostats._ " Though we continued in Orlesian, I will write the remainder of our encounter as though we spoke in the King's Tongue, for the benefit of readers unacquainted with the Imperial language. "Though you are correct in asserting that we have no shame," I conceded. "We are agents of the Inquisition, and we are here to establish contact with the ranking members of the Chantry." My eyes cut from Roderick to the revered mother by his side. "We move to fulfill Divine Justinia's final desire," I pre-empted the woman, who still had not spoken. "Branding us heretical necessarily indicts Her Holiness also."

Unfortunately, this cleric took her inspiration from Roderick, rather than following in Mother Giselle's more practical example. "You have quite a bit of nerve to come here," the mother observed, her voice laced with disapproval. Her gaze did not remain fixed upon me for long, though it became no more accommodating as it beheld the qunari at my side. "Led by a giant, of all things."

Suredat-an confirmed her ignorance of Orlesian by the lack of her usual obstinacy in the face of such a declaration, but I felt obliged to register the dissent I knew would otherwise have been forthcoming. "She does not speak for the Inquisition," I exclaimed. "You doubtless know me by reputation if not by acquaintance," I went on, and I could not help but think that Josephine would be proud of the subtlety of my remark, for it implied that the revered mother had not been revered enough for a private audience with Justinia. "My name is Cassandra Pentaghast. What may I call you?"

The chancellor presumed to speak for her. "You address Mother Agathe," he informed us. "Soon to be the next Divine. It will be she who decides-"

"That is quite enough," the revered mother interjected, though she did not seem convincingly displeased at the man's proclamation. "I am Mother Agathe," she allowed. "And you have gravely miscalculated, Cassandra Pentaghast. Though your presence saves our forces the trouble of uprooting you and dragging you here in chains."

The certitude in her voice alarmed me even further than the bare bones of her words, and I felt my fingers itch to take hold of my sword. A glance at my company told me that they too felt the rising tension in the square, whether or not they followed the conversation. "You have no forces," I reminded Mother Agathe. "The templars have abandoned you."

The look of triumph which crossed her features at this proved adequate to rob the fire from my words. "That is true, of course," the cleric conceded. "Yet our brave templars have seen the error in their deeds, and have returned to the fold." She gestured to the crowd, which soon parted to reveal a column of advancing templars. They were not so numerous as those we faced in the Crossroads, but they were even more disciplined, and led by the man we secretly sought, which made them far more dangerous. "You see?" Agathe demanded, the cast of her face turning smug. "The only question remaining is how obstinate you will be in your submission to the Chantry's justice."

"Lord Seeker Lucius," I prompted, as the man himself approached. Rather than bow my head or draw my sword, I kept to the strategy that Leliana, Josephine, Cullen, and I had devised before setting out on the journey to this place. "We must speak about troubling events in the Hinterlands."

The revered mother laughed, as though I had uttered a bawdy jest. "Speak?" She repeated, shaking her head. "My dear girl, the only speaking you shall do henceforth shall be from a grated window, or from the gallows. You have no right-"

And then Lucius struck Mother Agathe. A single blow from his armoured fist saw her collapse onto the slightly-raised platform upon which she'd stood, and her agonised cry was strong evidence that the injury done to the woman ran deep. With that single action, Lucius succeeded in turning the crowd's suspicion and terror away from myself and my companions, and though some of the templars who followed him looked shocked, he did not seem to care. "You will not address me," he growled, petulantly.

His lips parted once more, but before he could speak, Roderick stepped between us. Displaying more folly than courage, the unarmed bureaucrat swelled with indignation. "How dare you lay hands on Her Reverence? Have you no resp-"

The Lord Seeker's reply was once more one of steel, and as Roderick collapsed from the man's backhand blow, Lucius' arm moved smoothly to the hilt of the sword he carried over his shoulder. "Impudence," he hissed, his voice laced with the stirring sound of the blade drawing free of its sheath. He was to be interrupted yet again, however; moving more quickly than even I could have anticipated, Suredat-an closed in upon the Lord Seeker, her left hand intercepting his gauntleted forearm at the top of his swing.

" _No_ ," she rumbled, locking eyes with the Lord Seeker, who appeared dumbfounded for the briefest of moments before an angry snarl erupted from him. His attempt to break free of the qunari's hold proved futile, yet the woman must have learnt something of restraint in the ways of combat, for she did not press her advantage. " _You will not kill him_ ," she insisted, in Fereldan.

" _You dare_ ," he hissed, in the same tongue. " _Release me at once, and I will give you a quick death._ "

Such a threat proved unimpressive to his captor, for Suredat-an only increased her grip on the man's wrist and forearm, until his own fingers could no longer hold his weapon and it clattered to the ground. " _You are not_ basvaarad," she told him, as Lucius was driven to one knee before her. The templars at hand were not unified in their responses; some drew weapons and looked to engage the giant, but many hesitated. At last Suredat-an cast the Lord Seeker backward with a grunt, but she stood a bulwark between the templars and Lucius' victims.

The Lord Seeker returned to his feet, seething about the indignity of his treatment. Rather than offer battle, however, he made a self-aggrandising excuse to quit the Capitol, his words too feeble to merit recording. Most, though not all, of his templars followed him; those who remained became the Inquisition's first recruits from Val Royeaux, so moved had they been by Suredat-an's resolve and the evident piety of her actions. She did not seem to hear the muffled gratitude of Mother Agathe, nor the slightly more fulsome thanks offered by Roderick. Later I would come to learn that she had acted out of disgust for the Lord Seeker's bullying, and that what most mistook for piety was simple prudence; Lucius was not worth killing, much less martyring, at least according to Suredat-an.

Still, the Game notwithstanding, the citizens of Val Royeaux who had borne witness to the exchange were not apt to dissect it with such assiduous skepticism, and so our first visit to the Capitol resulted in the Herald's legend taking on a new dimension of fame...perhaps, even, a greater legitimacy. Rather than the templars saving the city from a band of vicious heretics, the Inquisition-and the Herald of Andraste in particular-had rescued two of the clergy from a rebellious order run by a madman. Yet such antics did not come without their own cost, for we had not long quit the circle when a runner approached with an invitation to a soirée. It happened to be hosted by Enchanter Vivienne, formerly Empress Celene's court mage and the only one of her kind to style herself First Enchanter, though the Montsimmard Circle had fallen along with all the rest. Though she had no corporeal forces at her command any longer, Vivienne was still greatly respected by the nobility of Val Royeaux and tolerated by the remnants of the Chantry, as toothless as it had just this day proven itself to be. Josephine would have politely skinned me alive if I had failed to capitalise on such an opportunity.

That is how I, Suredat-an, Varric, Solas, and Blackwall came to be in Lady Vivienne's great foyer later that evening, the last arrivals in what was rather a modest affair by Orlesian standards, which meant only that there were no caged Donark lions or Seheran eagles on display in the public areas of the estate. In any other country it would have been considered a grand masquerade, but I had lived in Orlais for more years than I cared to recall, and I knew that by the lack of ornament on the guests' masks that the atmosphere was striving mightily to seem subdued.

One minor nobleman took exception to Suredat-an's presence, and looked to antagonise her with barbed compliments. She merely stood, stoic as ever, doubtless aided in her poise by a lack of comprehension of the man's speech...though even if she could have understood him, I am not certain she would have changed her posture. Nevertheless his rudeness drew the attention of our host, who promptly froze him in place in a casual display of magic that she doubtless would not have dared before the templars forswore their oaths and forsook their charges. "I daresay, Eustache, you have forgotten upon whose floor you stand." Unlike everyone else we had encountered since crossing the border into the Empire, Vivienne did not address us in Orlesian, but rather in a King's Tongue of the southern Marcher upper classes. Her words poured over Suredat-an as springwater over a stone, with similar effect. "As the injured party, this man's fate is in your hands, my dear."

The noble could not move, bound as he was by Fade-touched frost, but by the way he struggled against his arcane bondage it was clear that he could hear well enough, and that he had taken the enchanter's meaning. "You would kill a man for poor manners?" I wondered, instantly reassessing the wisdom of acceding to her invitation. "And so openly?"

She cast her indulgent gaze my way, grinning as though I were slow to understand a simple jest. "When a man so openly mocks a guest in my house, he cannot expect the courtesy of a knife in the dark." She shook her head, clicking her tongue in disapproval. "In any case, it is Madame Adaar who has been injured; it is she who will decide whether the marquis shall stroll from beneath my roof or be swept away like last winter's dust."

Suredat-an's brows crinkled just slightly, one of those miniscule expressions it had taken me weeks of observation just to notice. "No," came her reply, as I had expected and secretly hoped for. It was the second time in one day that I had seen her decline needless slaughter, she whose arms had been wet up to her shoulders with the lifeblood of enemies both ethereal and mundane.

Unlike earlier, she offered no further rebuke, and so I took up the task of interpreting her silence. "She will not offer violence without just cause," I ventured. "And she does not appreciate being treated as a pawn in your Game."

The enchanter's grin transmuted flawlessly into a cutting smirk. "Just as she does not appreciate being a pawn in yours?"

Varric cleared his throat. "I can get behind murdering a rich asshole for speaking out of turn as much as the next dwarf," he grunts, "but this one's starting to melt all over your floor, lady." He nodded to the frozen man, who was still immobile, but well on the path to thawing.

Vivienne looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. "Very well," she allowed, gesturing with a glowing hand, as her highborn captive was released. He collapsed onto his hands and knees, gasping for breath but clearly alive. "You should thank the Herald for her mercy, Marquis Eustache. Now run back to your aunt's estate before I reconsider." The poor man took his leave without a trace of dignity, and we were invited past the vestibule without further incident.

The gathering was tedious, as only Orlesian fêtes could be; many people spoke but said nothing of consequence, save to those who still played the Game as though the very ground beneath their feet were not weeping with the blood of innocents caught between factions in the two wars still raging across their country-the one religious, between mages too long chafed beneath the templars' watching eyes, and the other secular, a family dispute between cousins who happened through the fortune of birth to command the destinies of more than one million souls. Yet we-I, rather-could not ignore their circumlocutions, or rather did so at great peril. Thus, despite my misgivings as to Vivienne's true motives, when at the end of the night she offered to lend her assistance to my cause, I accepted with as much grace as I could spare. We arranged to meet without the city's walls the next morning, for as much as I believed the offer genuine, at least to accompany us to Haven, I was not willing to entrust our lives to the security of her walls.

As it happened, my decision likely cast us into more danger than I had hoped to avoid, for on the way from Vivienne's estate we stumbled upon a scene of heated combat in a nearby alleyway. I was used to such intrigues as artifacts of the Game, and was disinclined to insert us in the affair, as regrettable as it may have been. Suredat-an had an altogether different notion, and before I could gainsay her, she had waded into a cluster of would-be assassins. As I moved to join her, two facts became apparent; the first was that the target of the fiends' ire was a baseborn elf with filthy clothes and a magnificent recurve bow which she wielded with deadly purpose, and the second was that her assailants wore not a stitch of clothing below the waist. Such an odd happenstance could have robbed me of the initiative from sheer mirth, yet the qunari fought on, butchering her way to the elf with an aplomb undiminished by her recent acts of charity.

It was all the rest of us could do to keep up, though at this point such was not a great surprise. When the last assassin fell to Suredat-an's focused wrath and the alleyway lay washed with their blood, the elf that we had rescued stepped from a hidden alcove, her bowstring taut. "I dunno who you are," she panted, "but we can call it even and all walk, or I can sell your skins for leather. Up to you."

Her tongue revealed her origins on the streets of Denerim, if my experience was reliable, and the cut of her tone told me that she harboured injuries and scars beyond the superficial scrapes we could easily see. "We are not here to harm you," I assured her. "We simply crossed paths while you were in danger, and we helped you deal with it. There is no more."

"Yeah," the elf grunted. "Like I never heard that before." She seemed more wary than frightened, despite the carnage she must have witnessed. The tip of her drawn arrow moved smoothly from one of us to another, and she did not look apt to flinch. "Well, get moving, if you're gonna." As we began to withdraw, however, she took a closer look at Suredat-an. "Hold a tick...I know you. Heard of you, at least. You this _Herald_ everybody and their mother's crawling over glass to kiss the feet of?"

The qunari paused, and in lieu of replying verbally, she lifted her marked hand, fist clenched. A pulse of green rolled from fissures in the flesh from her knuckles to halfway down her forearm, casting the alley with the same eerie glow given by the Breach, too far to the east to see from the streets' midst. The elf must nevertheless have recognised the qunari's intent, if not the signature of the magic which pulsed from her forearm, indisputably enthralling to those with senses attuned to it. It was almost familiar to me by this point, yet it still tugged at my breath, an echo of the violation that had taken Justinia from the world. "We shall go," Suredat-an said at last, as she lowered her arm.

"Right," the elf replied, relaxing her bowstring, though she kept her arrow knocked. As she lowered her weapon, however, she appeared pensive. Finally, as we were backing out of the alley, she seemed to come to a decision. "Right," she repeated, nodding emphatically and stepping closer. "I figure we could help each other out, yeah?"

Once again a stranger addressed Suredat-an, and once again she refused to speak for us. "That remains to see," I allowed, in her place. "We have already come to your aid. If you wish to join us, you are certainly welcome to accompany us back to Haven...but I wonder, what can you offer us, other than half a quiver of arrows?" I glanced around at the corpses, many of them pierced with competent shots. "...And why did your attackers lack trousers and pants?"

An irrepressible giggle bubbled up from the archer, bottomless in its joy, verging on manic. "Because they got no breeches," she explained, rather unhelpfully. She hesitated, as though waiting for us to join in on her mirth. When not even Varric could offer a sympathetic chortle, however, her demeanor became slightly more serious once more. "Right, big bunch of Long Faces doing Important Things," she snorted, dismissively. "Yeah, I could be another bow for you, but it looks like the one with all the earrings has you covered on that score. But there is one thing I have that you probably don't."

"And what is that, exactly?"

"The Friends," she replied, grinning wickedly. "Of Red Jenny, I mean. I assume you've got friends...well maybe not _you_ in particular, but at least some of you have, I'm sure."

The dwarf spoke up before I could give answer to the implicit insult. "You're joking," he protested. " _You're_ Red Jenny?" Now he guffawed, and it was her turn to become defensive.

"Well, yes," she insisted. "Sort of, anyway. There's a few of us around; one in Denerim, one in Ostwick, I think maybe a couple in Kirkwall after the nasty business there." She pulled a disgusted face, briefly, before shrugging. "Anyhow, I'm in charge of the Friends from the _Rue Charderie_ all the way out to Halamshiral," she informed us, and I gathered from her brief dip into Orlesian that she might have spoken the tongue fluently, despite the common touch of her Fereldan accent. "Network like that could be dead useful, yeah?"

My eyes narrowed with suspicion, but before I could voice it, Suredat-an raised the question. "Why?"

The question seemed to take elf aback, though likely not for the same reason that it surprised me. "Why?" She repeated, and another half-mad giggle stole from her lips. "Have you not seen what kind of knot the world's twisting itself into?" Shaking her head, she finally un-knocked her arrow and placed it in its quiver, slinging the bow over her shoulder. "Listen, you're used to playing the Game, right? With the poncy lords and ladies lying at one another and your bards and gobshites sifting through the lies to find out who's _really_ bumping uglies so that you can put one up over them at parties, yeah?"

This was a crude summation of Orlesian politics, but it was not entirely inaccurate, and so I inclined my head millimetrically. "In our case, we seek to buttress those of influence who favour our cause, and discredit those who do not," I pointed out, "not merely for our own amusement."

"Right," this Red Jenny allowed, shrugging. "Well, _my_ game's meddling with all of the arseholes and teeter-tottering bandywidgets what think they're better just because they got a last name or something," she explained. "So me and my Friends take their secrets-their _real_ secrets-and use 'em to bring _all_ of the bastards low." A snarl took hold of her expression, as sudden and fierce as an autumn gale. "Only we can't _do that_ if the whole friggin' world's gonna get swallowed by a giant hole in the sky! Can we?" And, as the ferocity melted away from her face, traces of fear remained before she could school her look back to impishness. "So...I figure, I help you, I get to go back to stealing breeches from Lord Paddysackle's household guard before I shoot him through the eye with an arrow for getting handsy with his serving girls. Yeah?" She took a breath to recover what she'd lost in the diatribe. "Name's Sera, by the way," she finally allowed. "What do you say?"

The woman was still a great mystery, her supposed organisation utterly unknown to one of my experience, though Varric's recognition of the name _Red Jenny_ licked at the edge of my memory. When I gave him an arched eyebrow, the subtle gulp he returned did much to ground me in our familiar dynamic of interrogation. "You know of these _Friends_ ," I observed, not bothering to pose it as a question. "How is it that I have not heard of them?"

It was too dark to tell if the moisture on the dwarf's forehead was swear or drying blood from the battle, but I took some satisfaction from it, nonetheless. "I told you Hawke's story," he grumbled. "As I recall, you asked for the _gory_ details, not the boring ones."

"I demanded the truth," I reminded him, turning more fully upon the man, letting him see my fist clench. He satisfied me by flinching, just noticeably. "And I demand it still, Tethras."

The use of his surname was enough to hold the customary glibness from his tongue, as it had been more than once in Cethlenn Hawke's estate in Kirkwall. "We did some odd jobs early on that might've coincided with some goals that the local Jenny had in mind," he admitted. "Some coin might've changed hands, but that's all. And after the Deep Roads, after Hawke and her mother got into that big house in Hightown, that was the end of any passing acquaintance." He shrugged. "The network's real enough, though," he conceded. "And, no offence to Nightingale, we could use the kind of intel that it has access to. Nobles tend to have loose tongues around their servants, for some reason."

"Almost like they don't think they're people, or something," Sera added, with a pointed laugh. "At least until the servant leaves a latchkey under a rock and the noble bastard wakes up to a bunch of spiders in her wig collection."

I rolled my eyes, especially at the approving whistle Varric spared for the likely-not-hypothetical scenario. Yet I caught Suredat-an's eye, and it was a slight nod from her that helped me to cut through my indecision. "Very well," I allowed. "We must be off, in any case, before the city guards grow curious. You may accompany us to camp, and thence to Haven." Sera did not breathe a word of thanks, but she fell into line with us as we withdrew from the alleyway, nevertheless.


	7. Chapter 7

We arrived at our secluded campsite sometime later. It was situated well beyond the outskirts of the city, unknown to the new allies we had made within the Capitol's walls, save for Sera. I was grateful for their allegiance, so far as it was genuine, but I did-and do-not trust especially freely, and I slept easier knowing that our position was still secure.

Or I would have done, if I had not been kept awake by knives gnawing at my abdomen. I made no mention of it to the others, beyond offering to take the first watch, which they seemed grateful for. Sera made no qualms about claiming my tent, without which she would have had to bivouac beneath the bare stars. Once the rest of our company had retired, I stoked up a fire to keep myself warm and ease the discomfort that the earlier combat had helped to stoke within me.

I enjoyed half an hour of relative peace before the dwarf saw fit to break my truce of silence. "It's a shame to waste such a nice night on the inside of a tent," he grunted as he sat down a respectable distance from me on the perimeter of the fire. "Would be even better if we had some more sausages to grill."

"I will make a note to return to the market on the morrow," I allowed acidly, the haze of pain both loosening and sharpening my tongue. If I had had more sense, I would have kept my mouth shut; Varric must have noticed, for he arched a concerned brow at me.

"You feeling all right, Seeker? Need me to get the Herald?"

I grimaced, this time more out of annoyance than distress. "She has healed me as much as she is able," I told him, unable to blame my symptoms on the injury I had sustained at the Crossroads. "Though my impalement likely did my womb no favours for times such as these."

The dwarf did not comprehend my meaning at first, but when he did, his reaction was hardly what I would have expected. Rather than flinching away or making some excuse to quit the fire permanently, he gave me a sympathetic look as he pushed himself off of his log. "I'll be right back." To my surprise, and slight chagrin, he proved to be a dwarf of his word. He was indeed not long in returning, and with a satchel of gear to boot. His equipment included a waterskin, a tin kettle, and a store of herbs, along with a wooden cup.

"I did not take you for an apothecarist," I managed, as he set a measure of water to warming by the fire.

Varric grunted as he mixed his herbs into the cup. "I didn't always truck with folks who could heal somebody at the wave of a wrist, and dwarves don't heal that easy, anyhow." He touched a sample from the cup to the tip of his tongue, nodding in satisfaction. "This is a tincture I got off a...off an old friend," he explained. "It's dwarven, but the balance should be close enough for you. Sunshine said it worked better than magic, before she became a Warden."

Mention of the younger Hawke piqued my interest. "You did not tell me that you had such skill, nor that you shared it with Bethany." It was not an accusation so much as an observation, but my voice held the edge of my pain, and so I could not fault the dwarf for hunching his shoulders. "I apologise," I allowed, pre-empting his defence. "It is just...odd, I suppose, that we omit such details from a story and yet can consider it complete."

"It's not that strange, really," Varric demurred, filling the cup with water just on the cusp of boiling. "When people say they want the gory details, they don't mean _all_ the gory details. Here," he gruffed, holding out the cup, its contents steeping. "I promise it isn't poison."

I passed a moment in indecision, my instincts still moving me to distrust out of nothing but habit, but another stab of pain moved my hand to accept the proffered potion. The first quaff was bitter but bearable, and I grunted my thanks. We sat for several moments as I sipped, silence our conversation, though it did not feel strained or wanting. The edge slowly receded from my cramps under the tincture's influence, and my thoughts cleared enough to make way for my curiosity. "Why did you specify that it helped her before she became a Warden?" I wondered, as neutrally as I was able. "Did the recipe lose its efficacy after the Joining?"

"Lost its use, more like," he shared, after a sip of tea from a spare cup that he had prepared during my meditations. "Apparently whatever juice they give you in that cup takes care of it more permanently."

"It is almost funny," I huffed in response. "I never fancied I would one day be envious of the Grey Wardens. Though I wonder if the effect is the same for men who are recruited."

"Apparently so," Varric surmised. "If King Alistair's lack of an heir is anything to go by."

I had no interest in exploring that particular point, but I did not wish to be bad company, since the tea was indeed soothing. "It seems a high price to pay to combat the Blight, withal," I managed. "Though I suppose there are greater sums the Wardens must bear."

"From what I know of them, I imagine you're right," the dwarf concurred. "Even Blondie's not getting out of the consequences, wherever he is."

Despite the time we had spent together, I felt my eyes narrow in suspicion upon mention of the apostate who had lit the tinderbox of hate and fear that had been brewing for nearly a millennium. "And you maintain that the rebel Warden's location is a mystery to you." Rather than dignify my familiar belligerence with yet another flippant denial, Varric rolled his eyes and took another draught of his cup, sparing me a raised brow. "You speak often of Bethany," I said, to redirect the conversation once more. "She comes up even more frequently than the Champion in the anecdotes you've shared with Solas and Blackwall." It was an observation I had accrued over the journey to Val Royeaux, but it had not crystallised until this moment. "Why is that?"

My tone was not inquisitorial, but it took the dwarf a moment to collect his thoughts. "I guess her story's just more relatable," he settled, believably enough, at least at the time. "Hawke is...a legend. People don't connect with legends. They don't wanna hear about the Champion's menses," he observed, with a pointed chuckle. "It makes her too human. Weakens the legend. Because a lot of really horrible shot happened to the Hawkes, and if they were only human after all..."

"Then there is nothing to keep events of similar weight from befalling the audience," I finished, in the span of his pause.

He nodded. "So...when I'm not telling _the story_ , I guess I think people will appreciate hearing about the sister. A little more removed, a little more fragile. Plus it's more romantic, and you know how I'm a sucker for that shit."

"I suppose," I conceded, after another sip of my cooling and increasingly-bitter drink. I judged its effects sufficient to abstain from the remainder, but I did not wish to retire, and Varric gave no sign of moving, so I continued. "Though I don't imagine many people can relate to an apostate Grey Warden courting an inconstant pirate, both of whom would go on to pillage the coasts of three nations as a sort of honeymoon." As consumed as I had been with Anders' rebellion, even I had heard of the resumption of Isabela's career as the Queen of the Eastern Seas, though now she styled herself an admiral, and it was obvious to anyone who had heard Varric's tale that Bethany Hawke was her most trusted lieutenant.

"Maybe," he allowed. "But _I_ like it. And Hawke never did settle down, as far as I know, so I'll work with what I've got." He finished his cup in one deep gulp, herbs and all. If he had been any other dwarf, I would have expected him to put on an act of indifference to the bitter taste; the Varric of my acquaintance was hardly so foolhardy, and he lived up to his reputation by pulling a sour expression. "Ancestors' hairy tits, I'll never get used to that."

Concern conspired with curiosity to part my lips. "What is ailing you, that you should take the full measure? Or any part of it, for that matter?"

The dwarf rolled his left shoulder, grimacing in pain, despite the analgesic he had just gulped. "Took an arrow, years ago," he confided. "During the fight at the Gallows, near the end." His eyes closed at the memory, and I could see that that night haunted him still, regardless of how often he had related its events. "It acts up now and again. This is one of the _now_ times, I guess."

I did not bother asking why he had not been properly attended with healing, either at the time or in the intervening years. Healing an old wound was almost never worth the agony it cost, if a mage could be found to share the pain of healing in the first place. In the chaos of the battle and its aftermath, meanwhile, there had been too many in desperate want; Athadra, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, had nearly perished, and it had only been Anders' expert attentions which had brought her back from the abyss. Whether that effort had been wise was as yet a mystery to the world at large.

We lapsed into further silence, until Blackwall roused himself and dismissed our watch, and we retired to our separate tents. Mine was still occupied by the lightly-snoring elf we had only recently acquired, and she did not stir when I took my place upon my bedroll, still in my armour but too weighted by Varric's potion to care. I woke a short time later, with the sun just beginning to stream through the tent's flaps and a sore back from the awkward position my armour had forced me into during my slumber. I also discovered Sera's arm strewn over my abdomen quite casually, the elven archer's breaths still deep with unbroken sleep, warm upon what few swathes of flesh my equipment left exposed. Her expression was so peaceful, verging on innocent, that it seemed a crime to disturb her...but I had to attend to the business of the morning, and we all must soon depart, in any case. Still, I saw no reason to be unkind, so I eased myself from beneath her limb with care, and I managed to quit my tent without drawing her from her dreams.

It did not surprise me that Suredat-an already stood watch over the breaking dawn. We shared a respectful nod as I sought the isolation of the near stream to bathe myself. Once I returned to camp to break my fast, I saw that the others had begun emerging into the new day. Both Varric and Sera acted as though the previous night had not occurred, for which I was grateful.

As arranged, we met Vivienne and her retinue of sycophants outside Val Royeaux's southern gate. Like the templars who had abandoned the Lord Seeker, these followers of hers would remain behind in the Capitol to establish a more lasting reminder of the Inquisition's presence within the city's walls. Vivienne did provide us with a finely-appointed wagon and a team of destriers which put our mounts to shame, both for her own personal travel and to aid us in transporting our goods. We therefore made excellent time back to Ferelden; if I were prone to optimism, I would have said that the reactions we evoked along the road were more welcoming than they had been for our arrival, as well.

As we traveled, Sera seemed content to play the vagrant, of a night. Sometimes she would claim my tent for her rest, while other times saw her bed down with Suredat-an; once, the elf even attempted to share Vivienne's horse-drawn quarters, but the mage politely requested her to leave by means of a small lightning storm. Sera spent many subsequent nights in the relative sanctuary of Suredat-an's austere tent, and much of the days along the road peppering the qunari with questions to which she received few answers. The qunari's continued reticence to explain herself drew my consternation if not my surprise, for despite the weeks passed in her company, I still knew almost nothing about the taciturn giant who had become the Herald of Andraste.

The veil of my ignorance would soon be lifted, or at least ruffled maddeningly; when we arrived at Haven, we discovered that the Inquisition had been busy in our absence-contacts made and contracts signed in the Hinterlands and beyond, skirmishes lost and one, mettle tested, information gathered and agents recruited. There was even a functioning stable, well-stocked and buttressed by the horses we had acquired in Orlais. Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen had done well in fleshing out the skeleton of support that Suredat-an, Varric, Solas, and I had conjured in Ferelden. But the most significant choice made during our sojourn, at least to my unsated curiosity, was the decision to engage the services of a mercenary company led by a one-eyed giant from Seheron who made his captain's quarters on the inner wall of the village, near the second gate leading to the Chantry, where Suredat-an and I could not but intercept him on our way to make our initial report on our journey.

He cut an impressive figure, not quite as tall as Suredat-an, but nearly half again as broad, and burdened with even more scars which his nearly-bare torso displayed for all to see. As Vivienne, Suredat-an, and I approached, he whistled appreciatively, apparently unused to having to raise his eye to meet another's gaze. "You know, I couldn't quite believe it when they told me how big you were," the stranger broached in greeting, his King's Tongue surprisingly unaccented. "Looks like I owe Krem a couple of sovereigns."

" _Vanek vidda'aresth unika,_ " Suredat-an volunteered, her wariness plain to see, despite the mystery her mother tongue gave her tone.

The unnamed qunari became more guarded at once, his unpatched eye narrowing. " _Suleda'in karonnek Vashoth esta'an,_ " he replied. He showed other signs of tension, but they were subtle, hidden to unkeen eyes, which may have been subterfuge or simply an attempt to be civil.

Suredat-an was less reserved in her suspicions, at least by the naked scorn on her face, as she replied. " _Fog hissin aad vidda katost antaa'i. Estost ilin Tal-Vashoth?_ "

"Well, isn't this just _charming_ ," Vivienne interjected, with an indulgent grin. "I think I shall continue on, as fascinating as this exchange undoubtedly is."

Her sharp departure did not break the frosty standoff between the two giants. The man hesitated, perhaps caught between the desire to defend himself and the prudence of surrender. "No," he said at last, once more speaking in the King's Tongue, but no less wary. "I'm supposed to be, at least to the _bas_." He inclined his head millimetrically toward me, but he did not move his eye from the mage at my side. "But they'll find out eventually. I guess it's better to get it out now. Your spymaster already knows, anyhow."

It was my turn to grow suspicious. "I take it by your presence that you are some kind of ally, but we know nothing of you. Please enlighten us."

"You can call me _the Iron Bull_ ," he allowed. "On paper I lead the Chargers-who happen to be the best damned mercenary company this side of Navarra-but I'm also _Ben-Hassrath._ "

The title meant nothing to me, but it seemed to relax Suredat-an greatly; true, she did not fall to her knees in awe, but her posture loosened, and she did not look half so feral. "Will you kill me?"

Suddenly, all of the tension that Suredat-an had shed seemed to grip me, for the so-called Iron Bull looked to consider her question weighty, rather than offer a placid assurance to the contrary. "I do not think so," he settled. "Not until we've closed the hole in the sky, at least. After that..." He shrugged, the scars of his face stretching with the force of his grin. "We'll see."

In lieu of an expected challenge to the man's impertinence, Suredat-an merely bowed her head as though in capitulation to her eventual fate. It was the most...not _passive_ , precisely, but certainly the most resigned I would ever see her. It was too much for me to let pass unrebuked. "If you wish to kill her," I informed him, "you may find the task difficult." As I spoke, my hand lit upon the hilt of my blade, just briefly. "And some would be curious about your motive for the attempt, after the sealing of the Breach, provided that the Maker wills it sealed."

"Some people ask the wrong fucking questions," the Bull rebuffed, but still he shuffled a half-step backward. "The answer to the right question is _no_ , by the way. The _Salasari_ have no idea who you are, and they don't need to learn, if I'm satisfied with what I learn here."

Suredat-an only frowned more loudly, but I grew even more concerned. "I am not fond of riddles," I told him. "Speak plainly, or you shall have an opportunity to test your mettle against us."

The giant actually laughed at me. "It would be a good fight," he conceded. "If _saarebas_ could do it. I doubt it can."

"No," the Herald finally said, a bit of the contrarian emerging from within her at last. "If you fight _basvaarad_ , I will kill you."

To my surprise, the Iron Bull laughed even more loudly. "Oh, that explains it," he rumbled. After blinking, he looked at me. "And you don't even understand," he chuckled, astonished. "That's the best part!" He shook his head, and I felt my temper rise. "You don't even know!"

"What do I not know?" I demanded, nearly ready to draw my sword. It had not gone beneath my notice that he had called Suredat-an _it_.

"That you've got a hell of a puppy following you around," he explained, entirely unhelpfully. But his mood seemed infinitely improved. "Anyway, my men and I are at your disposal, Seeker. If you want to dispose of us, we'll be at the tavern." He parted with a nod to myself and Suredat-an, still chuckling, leaving the path clear to the Chantry.

Would that my thoughts were similarly unencumbered. As we neared the Chantry and our companions, I found them clouded by my first encounter with a proper Qunari, a true adherent of the philosophy of the northern isles. That he held some position of authority over Suredat-an was obvious, if the details were still obscure. "Is he something like a templar?"

I must have momentarily forgotten with whom I walked, but the giant at my side was not long in reminding me. "No."

I could expect no better, and so I ruminated in silence for the rest of the way to the back room we had taken for our council chambers. The meeting passed in a similar fog, with summary reports given and received, the gist of which have already been presented. Our next course of action would be to push more deeply into the Hinterlands, to fulfill and extend the obligations Josephine and the others had effected during our journey to Orlais.

Once we adjourned and scattered, I found my feet guiding me to the village's modest tavern, where the Iron Bull was already midway into his cups with a few of his trusted lieutenants. I simply observed, at first, remarking to myself about the change in him; he seemed more at ease, his laughter free of the bitter edge it had had upon our first meeting. I was still wary, despite Leliana's confirmation-and brief explanation-of his role as a spy. The trading of secrets was hardly my strong suit, and though I did not trust easily, years of experience had earnt the Nightingale the right to keep them straight. Yet I still did not yet trust this man to walk freely among us when he had so openly contemplated visiting violence upon the Herald.

Eventually one of his men jostled his shoulder, and the Iron Bull lifted his unpatched eye to where I stood, by the door. I tilted my head for him to follow before I quit the warm and welcoming place for the snow-kissed darkness of the village. "Walk with me," I bid the giant, when he joined me. "Are you not cold?" I asked as we set out, surprising myself with the question.

"Fuck yes," he grumbled, keeping pace with a barely-noticeable limp. "But I can appreciate a little privacy, all the same. I assume you have more questions?"

"I do," I assured him. "Leliana tells me that you are a spy. I believe I understand your goal, to give your superiors intelligence about the Breach, and to prevent a speculative war."

He grunted. "I don't hear a question in there yet, Seeker," he observed.

"What can you tell me of Suredat-an?" I wondered, knowing as I spoke that this was the real crux of my curiosity.

"Nothing, personally," he said at once. "You know it far better than I ever could, or would even want to." His affect became more closed, as though he were trying to convince himself.

"I find both of those implications difficult to believe," I told him. "So much of her remains a mystery to those of us who supposedly hold her in confidence. I suppose it is simple ignorance of your kind."

The man's reserve evaporated, replaced by snarling fury. "It is _not_ my kind," he insisted. "I know no more of its thoughts or its doings than you do."

His bitterness did not alarm me, but it did nothing to allay my concerns. "I've heard that Qunari treat their mages even more cruelly than the Circles, before their fall. It is surprising to have it confirmed so quickly."

"That thing is not Qunari," he said, just as vehemently as before.

" _She_ says so as well," I allowed, placing more emphasis on the pronoun. "Yet she obviously showed you deference earlier, far more than I would have thought her capable, given what I know of her. Is she secretly still an adherent? Or is this simply another mystery we must puzzle over?"

"I don't know," the Iron Bull replied. "But if she really were Qunari, she would have killed herself the moment her magic returned to her, after she was separated from her _karataam_. That she still breathes means that she is not." He spoke slowly, as though explaining a simple truth to a curious child; likely, his indulgent use of _she_ to refer to Suredat-an was for my benefit. "That means she's more dangerous than you can imagine...though perhaps perhaps with you nearby, the danger will be tolerable, for a time."

"Why do you believe I could stop her?"

"I don't," he corrected me, with another bitter laugh. "If she could take me, and she _can_ , I know damned well she could take you. You're not a throttle on her violence, Seeker, but a rudder to guide it in the right direction. That is what it means to be _arvaarad_ , and it looks like she's chosen you to be hers."

He walked to my left, likely to keep me within his narrowed field of view, but it afforded me the ability to see into his unpatched eye. I saw a guarded sort of respect there, in the silvered depths. "Is that why she calls me that...qunari word _?_ " I wondered.

He nodded with a grunt of affirmation. " _Basvaarad_ ," he reminded me, his tone verging on reverence. "It is quite rare for a _bas_ to assume the role, but from what I know of you, I have hope that you'll succeed."

I did not feel proud to have his regard. "If you expect me to remove her tongue for the crime of saving my life, you are terribly mistaken."

He shuddered, as though repulsed by the very idea, despite his earlier words of acceptance. "That...explains a lot, actually." He limped a few more paces in silence before heaving a breath. "Listen, Seeker...I can support your story about _saarebas_. To my superiors, I mean. They'll think she was just some _Vashoth_ born and raised here, a mercenary, no more Qunari than a dwarf in Orzammar. Hell, I'll stay and fight by her side, even..." He shuddered, then. "Even against demons, and whatever else those fucking rifts throw at us. But even though I've been working undercover for a long time, I _am_ Qunari. And if _saarebas_ gives me a reason to, I will execute her."

"And I will tell you again that I will not allow that to happen."

He fixed me with a one-eyed glint of a stare. "It will be your responsibility to ensure it doesn't, Seeker."

It took me a few steps before I came to grips with his meaning. "I understand," I said at last. "And I will be a... _basvaarad_ ," I vowed. "At least as long as she favours me as such." I spoke with a conviction that I had no right to feel, and I might not have been so quick to accept the responsibility, had I known where it would lead...but that night, I fell to sleep with a few slivers of understanding for Suredat-an that I had not woken with, which I then accorded a modest victory.


	8. Chapter 8

The weeks that followed were filled with the difficult work of securing our organisation's footing for any battles to come. Lace Harding proved an indispensable asset as a scout in the field, while her sister set up shop in the village; Damasque had inherited the Harding family's flair for tailoring, and she worked day and night to help keep our forces properly clothed. She even worked with Harritt to improve the comfort and protection of our underarmour, which helped each of our principal warriors in no small way...save for Suredat-an, of course, who took no solace in comfort, and had no patience for protection.

We forged into the Hinterlands with renewed purpose, sealing many rifts and dispelling the countryside of demons and as many malcontents as we could manage to reach. Something approaching peace began to settle in the valleys south of Redcliffe, with the Inquisition's banners-and bannermen-sprouting as though from the very earth as our presence solidified. Even Chancellor Roderick returned to Haven, as a sort of unofficial liaison between the Chantry and the Inquisition, citing his own grudging gratitude for our actions in Val Royeaux, not to mention the political untenability of open hostility that those actions had engendered among the faithful.

There was still a grave threat posed by the forces of magic and of men and women who sought to rid the land if it, but the factions had each lost the better part of their leadership, and those who remained committed to their causes had retreated into the respective fortresses of Redcliffe and Thereinfal Redoubt in order to lick their wounds. Most of those who remained were either sick of fighting or had turned to crude banditry in order to survive. We recruited whom we could, any who saw reason; the others we encountered we killed, often more swiftly and mercifully than they deserved.

Not all of the news during this interval was positive, at least where I was concerned; I received confirmation of a deep suspicion of mine, that a dear friend and former lover of mine had perished at the Conclave. My grief was considerable, but I do not seek to unburden myself within these pages, just as I did not seek to unburden myself to my companions as we traveled, mindful that mine was not even the keenest loss of those with whom I fought. The Herald had forfeited her search for the Warden-Commander, while Varric had put at least a sea between himself and everyone he held dear, just to lend his aid to our cause. Neither might see their loved ones again, if the Maker proved as unkind as I was beginning to suspect.

The silence left by my sullen mood was often lifted by Sera, who did not seem inconvenienced by sombreness, and who had evidently tired of plumbing for answers from the well of Suredat-an's often still tongue. "So," she asked the Iron Bull as we marched afoot to find a rift in a thick wood, "why you got your sarry-whatsits on leashes up in the north?" She spoke in plain tones, in full hearing of Suredat-an, displaying either far less tact or far greater courage than I had been able to muster while both of the giants were in my company. "I mean, I guess I can understand about the Chantry keeping 'em separate, but you lot don't do that, do you?"

Rather than taking offense or mimicking the Herald's usual reply, the Bull showed himself even more loquacious than he had for my interrogation in the snow-strewn alleyway. " _Saarebas_ are kept separate from the main body of the Qunari," he corrected her. "But they're not locked in stone towers, flinging spells off the walls for the whole of their lives. They are a tool, and the Qun demands they be put to use."

"So they're just bleedin' _things_ to you?" The elf demanded, giving voice to a disgust I also felt beginning to take shape in response to the giant's words.

"You say that like you're not," he countered, evenly. "Like being a person is what makes you important in the world."

"Well it is," Sera mused, though she did not seem entirely convinced. "Isn't it? I mean, if you're not a person, what are you, then?"

"A tool," the Bull repeated, and I thought that I detected a hint of reverence in his tone. "I don't expect you to understand, Sera; you're just not built that way. Nobody down here is." He snorted. " _Maraas imekari_."

"Well help me understand, yeah?" Sera prodded, ignoring what may have been an insult, which showed just how committed she was to discovering the truth. "What's so friggin' mysterious about the whole thing?"

Suredat-an walked by my side in the front of our party, while Sera and the Bull strode immediately behind. It was Blackwall, in the next rank, who proffered an answer. "It ain't so difficult, really. The person comes second to the idea; everyone works together to make the idea real. That's what matters." Though he did not explicitly say, it was obvious that he took as his analogy the Grey Wardens, as he often did whenever he deigned to speak.

"...Kinda," the Qunari conceded. "It's more than just an idea, though...it's an _ideal_. Everybody...every _body_...is a small part of a larger whole. An organ in a great beast that's more than its parts. It goes beyond any one thing's point of view, to bring together everyone into a single perfect being." He gathered his thoughts for several steps before renewing his exposition. "To answer your question, Sera, we leash our mages not because they are the least among us, but because they are the _greatest_. The closest to making that ideal come true. It's why we dip their horns in gold and sew their lips together; it's why we honour them as the vanguard of the _antaam_ -the first into battle, the first part of our body that an enemy sees. Every one of them has more purpose than an army full of your southern mages. We hold them in the highest regard...and punish them with the greatest severity, when they stray." He made an annoyed grunt. " _Parshaara_. I'm not a _tamassran_ , and I'm no good at explaining; it's not my role to make outsiders understand."

"Well what's your friggin' role then?" The elf demanded, more enthralled than hostile, though it was clear that she was growing impatient.

"I specialise in cutting big things into small things," he chuckled. "And I _love_ what I do." I hazarded a glance over my shoulder in time to see him shrug, and he offered me a scarred smile of his own. "Luckily, we tend to run into plenty of big things that need cutting into smaller things. As long as your Herald doesn't get in the way of that, we'll be as gold as the caps of her horns."

"You were right," Sera admitted, as she stalked closer to Suredat-an and myself. "I really don't understand all that shite. Sounds too much like the Dalish, what with their keepin' every scrap and scribble that an elf might've used for wiping her arse with back in Arlathan." She elbowed Suredat-an in the hip and gave her a smirk. "Don't let them sour-faced purple-skinned arseholes tell you you're not a person; you're a damned sight better person than all of them, where I'm standin'."

"No," the woman said, though her face registered a hint of conflict. It was subtle, as much a lack of conviction as a true ambivalence, but it was enough.

I reached out to place a gloved hand upon her arm, just above the elbow, at the level of my shoulder. "It was a crime to reject you from your people and your home simply for healing one of your own kind," I assured her. She stiffened, but did not bristle, at my touch. "Perhaps one day you will find your way back to them...but until then, you should remember that you have a place-and a purpose-here. You will always be welcome with us."

Her brows drew together slightly as she regarded me, her scarred lips tipping into a frown. "I will remember," she vowed, with infinite solemnity. My hand lingered upon her arm for but a few steps more, but I was greatly cheered by her acceptance of my touch, and my words.

I noticed that Sera eyed me with some suspicion, however, and I sensed that she wished to have been the one to offer that comfort and assurance. I fell back to the rear without comment, trusting in Suredat-an to lead the way, and content to leave her in the company of the talkative elf. As we marched along, I noticed that Sera's interrogation was no longer quite so one-sided; though I had given them sufficient distance to keep from overhearing them, I could tell by their demeanor that the two women had begun a true dialogue, however halting and drawn Suredat-an's replies might have been. I recalled, then, that Sera had still foregone a tent of her own, though it had been more than a handful of days since she had imposed upon my hospitality.

The Herald proved the wisdom of my confidence not long afterward, when we converged upon the scabrous rift which had drawn us to this corner of the Hinterlands. It was hardly troublesome for us to open and then seal it, practiced at the task as we had then become, though our aid secured a great deal of good will from the local collection of farmsteads which passed for a village in that rough country.

When we returned to our transient camp later that evening, a simple message from one of the Nightingale's ravens awaited us.

 _It is time._

Given the progress made in recent weeks, I could not but agree. It was time, perhaps past time, for us to address the Breach, and how we might find the sheer strength to seal it. With general assent, Suredat-an, Sera, Varric, and I struck camp early the next morning, heading back to Haven at a brisk march. Blackwall, the Iron Bull, and Vivienne followed at a less onerous pace with the footsoldiers who traveled with us, offering further reminders of our order's presence-and promise-as they went.

We who advanced pushed ourselves quite severely, to the effect that I was reminded of that first desperate scrabble up the mountain, when we had little but the Breach's light to see by, and no knowledge of what lay in store once we were to reach the summit. In many ways that mystery remained, much like the violation's eerie glow still illuminated the path to the village. I had my own views as to our next steps, but I did not presume that they would take eminence; though I had spent the most time with the Herald of all of the advisors, and perhaps the most time of anyone who still breathed, I did not seek to leverage that proximity into a privilege I had not properly earned.

Once we reached Haven's gates, Sera disappeared to one of her usual haunts for rest. As exhausted as we were by the climb, however, the three of us who remained spent no leisure upon our arrival; we struck council with Josephine, Cullen, Solas, and Leliana within the heart of the Chantry which had become our beacon and our home since our world had come undone. "We know what must be done," Solas opened, without ceremony. He had remained in the village, or more properly above it, for much of the time since his arrival. Time spent in contemplation and study, he claimed, and his conjectures had proved correct often enough to allay the better part of my suspicions.

"Indeed," I agreed. "The Breach must be closed, and it must be done quickly."

"Though not in haste," the elf rejoined, inclining his head. "I have spent the balance of the past several weeks researching the means we may take to do just that. I am certain that the key lay in the Mark. It does have the potential to seal the Breach, of that there is no doubt."

"And yet the Herald failed I'm her first attempt," Cullen pointed out, turning his eyes to the giant. "I have no little experience with magic, and if any one mage could have done this thing, it would have been you, Herald. Yet as powerful as you are, not even your strength is equal to the task."

She offered no argument, showed no injured pride at the indictment. "That is so," Solas agreed, in her stead. "No _one_ mage in the whole of the world has sufficient power to see the deed to its end. Luckily, we are not limited to a single mage; a few days' march away is gathered a greater concentration of magical energy than has been focused outside of the Imperium in many centuries. If we can make the proper overtures, we will be able to secure a source of power to make a second attempt...and succeed."

Josephine made her presence known. "We have attempted to make contact with the mages currently occupying Redcliffe," she told us. "Every overture has resulted in...a hostile reply."

"My agents have had little luck infiltrating the castle," Leliana admitted. "From refugees who've joined our cause, and my own experience, I can guess that the mages' leaders are using blood magic to ensure the loyalties of their subordinates."

"Well," Varric interjected. "Shit."

"Do we really wish to stake our lives on a coven of blood mages?" Cullen wondered. "I've seen first hand what misery their kind can wreak."

"As have I," I countered. "Yet I am not willing to forsake all of those mages who may earnestly wish to help, on account of the desperation of their leaders "

"That is an admirable position," the former knight-captain conceded. "But I maintain that we may find as much power as we might require elsewhere," he insisted. At my prompting, he continued. "Templars have talents not dissimilar to magic, which may be focused communally when they're gathered in numbers." He returned his attention to Solas. "Would it be possible to harness that power to close the Breach?"

"I believe so," the elf replied, after a brief pause to consider. "Given Suredat-an's connection to the Grey Wardens and her own talent for blood magic, I speculate that a sufficient number of Wardens or even darkspawn might prove a potential resource, also." He shrugged, shaking his head. "But nothing will be as effective as raw arcane energy. If we do not at least attempt to engage with the mages, I fear that we will be taking an unacceptable risk."

Cullen was not yet ready to concede. "Well, we cannot possibly take Redcliffe by force; we may have recruited a substantial number of followers, but the castle has never fallen to a frontal assault. If diplomacy has not worked thus far..."

"There is another option," Leliana proffered, though hesitantly. "I have infiltrated the castle before, during the Blight. It's a route I've refrained from using up to now, to keep from arousing suspicion. But a small group could sneak in, take the defenders unawares, seize control of necessary."

"And then what?" Varric grunted. "You cut the head off the beast, you leave a thousand hands to strike at you."

"Not if it's done in the appropriate manner," Josephine countered. "If paired with diplomatic overtures and the proper implication of bloodshed, it is just possible that we could bring the mages to terms...especially with a sufficiently swift change in leadership, which, from what little intelligence we've been able to gather, is quite lacking."

"That is true," Leliana mused. "The Imperial magister who's taken ostensible control of the southern mages has insinuated himself into circumstances he cannot hope to understand...and he is not as in control of the situation as he might imagine, if we can rely upon the reports of those who've escaped from his stronghold."

Their words came as something of a surprise to me. "I had no notion that there might be division amongst the mages," I admitted. "Though I suppose it is not surprising. Many competent mages have perished." I made sure to keep my tone level and my expression even, though I knew that one of those mages was Regalyan, the man whose affections I had accepted and returned, and whom I still could not believe I would never lay my eyes upon again. "If the balance may be rescued from the folly of Tevinter magisters driving them to ruin…"

"So have we decided, then?" Cullen wondered, an edge of scorn to his own voice. "We'll develop a plan to _rescue_ the mages, to the exclusion of the templars?"

Suredat-an spoke up for the first time, and though it shouldn't have, her addition took me by surprise. "No."

I was not the only one around our strategy table to be taken aback. "What do you mean, Herald?" Josephine inquired. "Would you prefer we focused our efforts on securing the allegiance of the templars, instead?"

"No," the giant repeated, as implacably as ever.

"...Then what?" I demanded, more curious than affronted. "Should we focus our efforts on locating the missing Wardens?"

"No," she said again, and she looked from myself to Cullen. "I know not the words...your choice is wrong."

Cullen threw up his hands. " _Which_ choice?"

"Both."

After a span of moments, when it became clear that our Herald would offer no further clarification without prompting, Varric offered a guffaw. "I don't know where you've been for the last few weeks, Harry, but you should know by now that you're not gonna get these people to change their minds by being all mysterious and broody. You gotta tell 'em what the fuck you _mean_."

She frowned loudly. "You have the words, _hissrad_. I do not."

"Well, if you want me to explain, I've gotta say that I don't know what the fuck you're talking about," he replied. "You say the choice is wrong, but there's two choices."

"No," Suredat-an repeated. "There is no choice."

I was no wiser about the woman's meaning, and a quick scan of the other advisors revealed a similar befuddlement, except for Varric. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I think the term our vertically-gifted friend is searching for is _false dichotomy_ ," he informed us, with a cheeky grin. "It means-"

"We all know what it means, dwarf," I assured him, before I turned my attention to the giant. "Why do you believe we do not have to choose between the mages and the templars?"

"If we cannot take Redcliffe," Cullen interjected, "we cannot hope to force the templars at Thereinfal Redoubt to a favourable decision."

" _We_ cannot," Suredat-an agreed. "I can." It might have seemed a boast from anyone else, but she delivered the assurance as simple fact, devoid of hubris.

"You cannot be serious," Cullen objected. "As talented as you are, you cannot face hundreds of templars on your own and hope to live, much less win them for our cause."

"I need only face one," Suredat-an insisted.

I began to comprehend her meaning. "Lucius," I pronounced, and she inclined her head. "It is true that he assumed command of the templars, much like the Tevinters have assumed command of the mages," I observed. "The rank and file are likely dissatisfied with his leadership, given what we witnessed in Val Royeaux."

"We witnessed Sura damn-near ripping the man's arm off," Varric reminded us. "I thought we'd have to make a run for it."

Apparently, the Herald had come to reconsider her decision to allow the Lord Seeker to walk from the Capitol...or, perhaps, circumstances had changed enough to warrant a different outcome. I considered the implications before us. "What is your proposal, Suredat-an?" By then I had learned to stop myself from speculating, and simply ask her to speak plainly.

The giant leaned over the table, over which we had spread a map of southern Thedas, marking areas of interest. "You, here," she said, indicating the castle-drawing of Redcliffe, beneath Lake Calenhad. "I, here," she continued, dragging her finger across the map, to the pin that stood for Thereinfal Redoubt, the fortress rehabilitated and reinhabited by Lucius and what remained of the templars who'd abandoned their duty. "Free _bas saarebas_ and _arvaarad_ from _rad-kithshok_." She paused, and her scarred lips tensed, in the merest ghost of a smile. "Profit."

A handful of heartbeats passed in silence as we processed the final two syllables of the Herald's exposition. It was Varric, unsurprisingly, who recovered first. "Did I just hear the _Herald of Andraste_ make a _joke_?"

The woman straightened, her expression smoothing once more. "Yes," she stated, baldly. She had evidently absorbed some knowledge from the time she had passed in Sera's company, and it was remarkable to see.

Amazed, I felt the air flee from my lungs before the sound of my own laugh echoed off of the walls. The mere fact of the Herald's attempt at humour was many times more gratifying than the actual wit she had displayed, and the gravity of the scenario merely compounded the effect it had upon all of us gathered about the table. Soon enough, the walls peeled with laughter, rolling in waves that crested and fell without guidance. It had been years since I had been forced to surrender to my childish impulses in that way, and by the time we all settled down, the mood of the room was much elevated. "There are many risks," I pronounced, when at last I could call myself the master of my voice. "Yet failure to act entails certain catastrophe. I am willing to lead the charge against the magisters within Redcliffe; does anyone here object to also engaging Lord Seeker Lucius simultaneously?"

"It will not be easy to arrange," Josephine cautioned us. "But...if you and the Herald wish to do this, I see no better alternatives."

Cullen sighed, wearily. "If we can come up with a decent plan of attack, I have no objection."

Leliana inclined her head, as though in prayer. "I shall help you assault the castle, Cassandra," she said, making her decision and her offer as one.

The elevated mood began to grow sombre once again. "As it should be," I judged. "The Left Hand of the Divine aiding the Right."

" _Hissrad_ is with me," Suredat-an declared. "His words are better than mine."

That proclamation took me by surprise, as did my own instinctive objection to it. "Are you willing to do it?" I asked Varric directly, before I had fully considered my feelings. "To speak for the Herald?"

His reply was hardly immediate. Arching a brow to the woman fully twice his height, Varric shrugged. "I'm not a diplomat," he cautioned. "But if you need me, Harry, then yeah...I'll go with you."

I felt a sliver of worry, and perhaps even a touch of disappointment. "...Then you should take heed to caution," I warned him, mindful that he was as gallant and foolish, in his own way, as any hero from one of his tales. "For the Herald certainly will not heed it on your behalf."

He nodded, once, and took a step back from the table. "You take care too, Seeker." He threw a glance to Suredat-an as he turned to the door. "There's a half a barrel of ale with my name on it down at the tavern," he alleged, and I could not be certain he was merely expressing the common idiom, or stating a fact. "You let me know when we're heading out. I'll be ready."

And then he left us, to hash out the details of our tactic. Before we began, I found myself addressing Suredat-an. "You will be careful with him," I insisted. "...With everyone you take with you." It was an order, as natural between us as breathing, and Suredat-an acknowledged it with an easy deference I had come to expect from her. If this particular order had a bit more force behind it, neither she nor the other advisors saw fit to offer comment.

We began in earnest to debate our solid steps. My own part proved the easier to decide; we would send a delegation of our mages, led by Solas and Vivienne, to engage with the holdouts in Redcliffe as a distraction. Cullen would lead a contingent of soldiers to provide security and intimidation, where necessary. I would take Leliana, the Iron Bull, and a couple of his senior mercenaries on a mission into the castle, to capture or kill the Tevinters that had claimed it for their own.

The Herald would be accompanied by Varric, along with Sera and Blackwall, with a baggage train of minor nobles from Orlais and western Ferelden that had become attracted to our cause; Josephine was reasonably certain that the legitimacy offered by such a visit would grant the Herald an audience. Suredat-an's plan was simple...this time, she had no intention of allowing Lucius to escape her grasp.

I only prayed, as we broke to prepare, that she and her companions could escape his.


	9. Chapter 9

The plan we developed to secure the allegiance of both the mages and templars, who comprised the main body of belligerents left standing after the Conclave, was not without its risks; Thereinfal Redoubt held an army of anti-magical warriors, and if our gamble about the templars' allegiances to the Seekers did not pay out, it was doubtful that the Herald and her companions could have emerged from the fortress. My own part to play hinged upon a similar assumption with respect to the mages, yet I did not worry for my fate near so much as for theirs. Thus it is their contribution to the next portion of the Inquisition's history that I shall focus on now. The reader should suspect that I did not recover many of the proceding details from the Herald herself; indeed, my sources for the events at Thereinfal Redoubt include Varric, Sera, Blackwall (as he was still known to us then), and a sturdy templar by the name of Ser Delrin Barris. None of these people's accounts were perfectly trustworthy, but I have made my greatest effort to compare them, and to sift what I believe to be the truth from them.

It began with a reception at Thereinfal, attended by a smattering of banns and comtes from either side of the Frostbacks. I had been skeptical that such a tactic would be effective, given what I thought I knew of the man. Yet his conduct in Val Royeaux, and reports from Leliana's agents, put doubt to my familiarity, enough that I did not object. When the arrangements had been made, Suredat-an and Varric led the collection of nobles into the Hinterlands. I accompanied them as far as the Crossroads, where our courses diverged, and I could spare little thought to their progress as Leliana and I prepared for our own undertaking.

Four days after our parting, the Herald's party arrived at the redoubt, and Ser Barris had the duty to greet them. By his own report, he was uncomfortable with the idea of nobility invading the stronghold he and his fellows had made, but he had been given an order, and he would see it through. As he understood it, the Lord Seeker was offering the Inquisition an alliance, with highborn witnesses to ratify the agreement and hold both parties accountable...though a man of Barris' rank was not accorded much more than the rumour of his peers. Even so, he stood at the portcullis as Suredat-an, Varric, Sera, Blackwall, and their charges crossed the drawbridge. He admitted the Herald and her closest companions into the redoubt's courtyard so that Suredat-an might perform the Rite of the Three Flags, a ritual which every templar recruit must undergo at the beginning of their vigil, which they must stand for the night before taking the vows of their order.

At its core, the Rite was a secular affair, meant to judge a recruit's priorities. The Herald had no business performing it, no more than the Lord Seeker had in demanding it. Yet Barris did not question, and Suredat-an did not balk. From all reports, she selected the flag of Andraste, then that of the People, and finally that of the Templar Order itself. It would have been a controversial decision for a recruit, but it was not unexpected of the Herald, and did much to secure the respect of the lower-level templars gathered to bear witness to the ceremony. I suspected (and suspect still) that the Herald was aided in this sequence by Varric, a man if some slim faith and a great-if low-cunning. "Come," Ser Barris told Suredat-an, once the ritual had been completed. "The Lord Seeker will speak with you now, while the guests get settled."

The Herald and her fellows followed the man into a small room, where they were to meet with Lucius. He did not arrive as promised, however; in his stead came a knight-lieutenant in full helm and armour, whom Barris could not identify, even when he spoke. "The Herald of Andraste," the stranger pronounced. "It seems your faith is sincere, in spite of your beastly heritage. Pity; when the Elder One is finished with you, the Maker will not deign to look upon you, regardless of His bride's favour."

"What is the meaning of this?" Ser Barris demanded. "We are to come to an accord with the Herald."

"You are to do nothing," the templar countermanded, "save join us, or die. Their fate is sealed, in either case."

Then, uncertain of the shifting ground beneath his own feet, Delrin Barris was given a choice. Fortunately for him and for the Inquisition, he chose correctly. In the battle that followed, it was revealed that many of the templars' higher ranks had been given red lyrium-the very same substance that had driven Knight-Commander Meredith mad, and which we had discovered in the dark places of the Hinterlands. We had hoped it some natural phenomenon, or perhaps coincidence...but our hopes were false. At first I did not believe Varric's and Barris' accounts of the red templars, but later on, I witnessed with my own eyes the horrible creatures spawned by the corrupted lyrium.

Those first disciples of the Elder One were not twisted beyond the human form, like those who would come later, but they were vicious and fanatical, and they commanded the element of surprise. Suredat-an was prepared for combat, as she always was, and that gave Varric and the others of their cohort the advantage over their circumstantial allies; the lower-ranked templars who found themselves unexpectedly pitched in combat fared quite poorly on the whole.

Ser Barris was counted among the survivors of that opening skirmish, and he was the first to break with Lord Seeker Lucius. Or, at least, the _thing_ that had taken Lucius' face, along with command of the templars. From the accounts of those aforementioned, and my own later experience, it came to be revealed that the one we had all assumed to be Lucius Corin was in fact a demon in the shape of the man; the true Lord Seeker was at his own business elsewhere, ignorant of the phantasm that had stolen his name. Even before such was revealed, though, Barris took the lead of those of his fellows left uncorrupted, and he proved himself an invaluable ally in the fight to rid the stronghold of the Elder One's influence.

I am given to understand that Suredat-an faced the demonic imposter within her own mind not long after its ruse had been revealed; I can offer no details as to what occurred there, for to my knowledge the Herald never spoke of it beyond the mere fact of the encounter, even to those she grew to hold close. I can only infer that she defeated the invasion, for the others reported seeing the demon's true form revealed as it flew from her at the top of the stronghold's inner stairs. Once it was confronted and slain, along with its lyrium-enhanced subordinates, nearly all that remained of the templars in the southern half of Thedas lay at the Inquisition's disposal.

At roughly the same time, I was securing the allegiance of the final holdouts of the mage rebellion. They had sought refuge in Redcliffe at the Grey Wardens' forbearance, drawn by the reputation of the junior enchanter turned apostate who'd saved the world and defied the Chantry. Though Athadra had gone and her forces had similarly disappeared, her legend remained, drawing malcontents and ideologues from across the continent. That was why the templars had chosen Thereinfal Redoubt as their own fortress, and why they had attempted to seize the Crossroads, before the Inquisition's intervention. The chaos and misery that both factions had caused in the last two years was beyond the summing, and it must need come to an end; that, even beyond the healing of the Breach, had become the Inquisition's mission. Little did we know that the accord we sought was necessary not to secure peace, but in order to withstand a terrible onslaught of war, the likes of which Ferelden had not witnessed since the First Blight.

But that was still to come. When I left the Crossroads in the company of Leliana, the Iron Bull, his captain Cremesius Aclassi (whom he affectionately called _Krem_ ), and the mage known only as Dalish (though she insisted she had no magical talents, a fiction which I was happy enough to entertain, as long as she could fight), the only notion we all had was to infiltrate-and then escape-the castle. We moved in secret while Cullen, Vivienne, and Solas marched openly with the rest of the Chargers and more than half of the mages who'd joined our cause. They were to meet with Gereon Alexius, the magister lord who had assumed command of the southern mages.

The meeting was a ruse on Alexius' part, of course, and he had no intention of attending. But our own tactic relied upon just such cunning; under cover of darkness, Leliana guided us to the remains of a windmill, supposedly destroyed by darkspawn during the Blight. In truth, according to the Nightingale, it was pulled down by Athadra in order to seal a secret method of ingress they had used over the course of their adventure together. It was the work if hours to clear the path, at least in such a manner as would not be discovered before our egress.

The route was went beneath Lake Calenhad, which meant it was dark and damp. The Bull had to crouch the lowest, of course, and he grumbled the loudest, especially when his horns scraped along the tunnel's roof. "Bah," he hissed, when he had to duck for the third time. "Whose fucking idea was it to build a fucking tunnel underneath a fucking lake in the first fucking place?"

"Ah, shut up, Chief," Krem said. "You're just sore you couldn't go kill some templars."

"Less of a chance of demons with the templars," the Qunari exclaimed, and fool that I was, I was inclined to agree.

Leliana, at the forefront, was less amused than the rest of us by the Bull's distress. "There is a great chance the mages will send Lake Calenhad atop us if you do not be quiet."

"Yes, ma'am," the giant murmured, and he held his tongue even as we crossed the midpoint of the tunnel, where it grew so narrow that the mage, Dalish, had to scrabble through on her knees.

But scrabble we did, and in the early morning, two hours before dawn, we emerged into the same section of dungeon that Athadra had seen, ten years previous. Then, it had been guarded only by ravening corpses, risen by a demon; now it had a complement of three Tevinter soldiers, whose bronze faceplates marked them as non-magical but of some rank within the martial aspect of Imperial society. Leliana's arrows and Dalish's discreet spellwork saw them to a quick and silent end, and as we moved deeper into the dungeon, we soon learned the reason why they had been set to guard it in the first place: each of the cells was inhabited, by prisoners of conscience or of convenience.

Most appeared to sleep, but there were a few with strange signs about them, those who moaned and showed traces of a red glow in broken stretches of exposed flesh. None yet showed the foul corruption that we would later see, but these were among the first victims of red lyrium that I personally witnessed, and their fate was hardly enviable. Yet there was little we could do for them that was not already entailed by our plan, and so I urged us on to the end of the dungeon. There, quite by accident, a stray glance showed me the inhabitant of the foremost cell, at the bottom of the stairs. She was filthy, in tattered peasant clothes, strung up by her wrists against the wall, but I recognised her profile from the few times I had personally seen her; it was Grand Enchanter Fiona, who had disappeared from the Conclave at Cumberland, some years before, along with a great many of her fellow mages. I halted, motioning for the others to do the same, and as I approached, the prisoner lifted her head.

I saw then the brand of the Chantry's sunburst upon her forehead, and I knew in that moment that she had been made Tranquil, contrary to Chantry law and all Circle custom. "Fiona," I breathed, hardly able to believe it. "Tell me how you came to be here."

"That is a question I could ask you, Seeker," the former Grand Enchanter wheezed, and there was a bitterness to her voice that I had never heard from a Tranquil mage, in all my years of experience.

It struck me that I had never seen a Tranquil chained so, either; there was simply no need, given the docility of their kind. I had no knowledge of the Tevinter practice of the Rite of Tranquility, nor their reactions to one such among their number, but I could not imagine such cruelty. "Why have you been bound so?" I demanded, suddenly and irrationally angry. "What sort of monster could do this thing?"

"The sort who seeks to save himself from my fate," she replied, darkly. "Have you come to kill me? To finish what your master started?"

She spoke with such venom that I had to take a second look at the mark upon her face, but the inspection did not lead to any other conclusion; she had undertaken the Rite. "Are you not Tranquil?" I asked, unable to withhold my curiosity, even as my fellows set to watching for more guards.

"I was," Fiona admitted, her face twisting with anger. "As was the former lord of this house. We were both taken, by Lambert van Reeves." She summoned some kind of strength, pulling herself higher on the wall, until she could stand on her feet.

"That is not possible," I breathed, the ground beneath my own tipping as if I stood on a ship at sea. "Lambert was killed some time ago."

The captive's grin took an edge of satisfaction. "Oh, I know, Seeker," she assured me. "I watched him die by the Warden's hand, before she freed me." Her eyes slid from me, to the muck and filth which surrounded her. "It is to my shame that I squandered that gift of liberty."

I did not understand the full force of what she told me, and would not understand it for some time to come. In short, Fiona and many of her conspirators had been abducted from Cumberland, turned Tranquil for the crime of voting to separate from the Chantry; Fiona herself was taken into Lambert's care as a personal attendant, with few the wiser of her true origins. Some time later, the Lord Seeker orchestrated Warden-Commander Athadra's capture, and attempted to impose a similar course upon her own fate...an attempt which he eventually came to regret.

I was in the process of coming up with a reply when a noise sounded at the top of the stairs which led to the castle proper. Leliana had loosed an arrow at an intruder; the shot would have been fatal, except the man's footing faltered at precisely the right moment, and he tumbled, taking the arrow in his shoulder rather than his throat. Rather than tumble, however, the mage leapt to the middle landing and knelt there with one hand up in a gesture of surrender. "Ahh," he groaned, though it likely was meant as a jaunty quip. "I see that my foolish attempt at a rescue is...somewhat unnecessary."

Leliana readied another arrow, but something in the man's look brought my hand up, and I redirected the Nightingale's bow to the floor. "Bring him here," I directed the Bull and Krem. "Kill him if he offers resistance."

The man offered little more than pained grunts as the Chargers handled him down the stairs and presented him to me. "Dorian," he grunted, eyeing the shaft of the arrow still embedded in his shoulder warily. "Of House Pavus. Before we proceed with the interrogations, you will tell me if the arrow is poisoned, yes?"

"It is not," I assured him. "What is your business here?"

He managed a laugh. "I could ask you the same," he pointed out, only to give a rictus grin as the Bull jostled his arm. "Ahh...alright, alright," he pleaded. "I am...a _friend_ , of Gereon's."

"You are a magister?"

"No!" He exclaimed. "And I'm not a revolutionary...well, I _am_ , but not of the sort you're likely expecting. No, I am a friend, and I am trying to save him from whatever madness has taken him. My first step was to release these prisoners, beginning with the Grand Enchanter, whom I see you've already met."

My eyes narrowed as I considered him. "How could you hope to save him by defying his will?"

"Because I knew you-well, someone very much _like_ you-would soon be coming to kill him," Dorian sighed, sagging in the grip of his captors. "I tried to reason with him tonight, again, to no avail. I _had_ hoped that freeing these prisoners and sowing discord among the southern mages in the ranks would force him to abandon this futile quest of his."

Fiona, still in her restraints, did not share the Tevinter's optimism. "He must die," she pronounced. "He will never surrender the castle willingly."

Dorian looked to argue, but another spasm of pain robbed him of his nerve. "I...suppose you're right, Grand Enchanter. Still, it is...sad, to see it come to this." He shook his head, returning his attention to Leliana and myself. "There is a mage from Val Royeaux here, called Rhys. He was given de-facto responsibility for the southern mages, once Fiona was captured, but he is working against Gereon from within; with your support, he can move his people against my countrymen, and you can end this farce once and for all."

"We do not know if we can trust him," Leliana pointed out; she had an arrow still knocked, ready to bring to bear at a heartbeat's notice. "This all could be a trap."

The Bull rumbled in agreement. "Red's right," he said. "What do we do with him, boss?"

Dorian chuckled, even from within his captors' grasp. "My wound is painful, but not fatal," he pointed out, "and though I am not a member of the Magisterium, I am a scion of a powerful house of magic; I assure you, if I wished to, I could make you earn it." He gave a one-armed shrug. "Why don't we settle on a compromise? You can release Fiona from her bonds-I'm certain one of these fragrant gentlemen has the keys-and replace me in her position? That way you'll not have me at your back to worry about any errant spells catching you unawares."

The concession would have seemed reasonable, if suggested by one of my companions. Coming from a potential enemy, though, it only raised my suspicions. "Why would you offer such a thing, Tevinter?"

" _Dorian_ , please," he corrected. "And it is quite simple. If I am chained up here in the dungeon, my participation in the upcoming uprising is eminently deniable, should it fail. And if it succeeds, I get credit for helping. EIther way...I stay alive."

"Bastard makes a point," Krem added, from behind the mage's uninjured shoulder.

I did not take my eyes from him. "Bull, have Dalish search the dead gaolers for a set of keys."

He nodded to the mage at my back. "You heard the lady."

She was not long in procuring them, and after a bit of experiment, Dorian had taken Fiona's place upon the wall. He told us where we might find Rhys, and Leliana judged it best to leave the arrow in his shoulder until a proper healer with good time could heal him.

Fiona remained behind to watch over the charge that had taken her place while we emerged into the castle proper. Leliana's mental layout of fortress proved accurate even after the span of years since she had been within, and we were able to move about at will, without detection, until we came upon Rhys at the appointed rendezvous. It was a small library on the middle floor, and when I stepped through the door, the wary man flung a hasty spell at me, which I neutralised out of instinct. "Calm yourself," I told him, as my companions piled into the tiny room. "My name is Cassandra Pentaghast. We are here on behalf of the Inquisition."

The man looked wary, gripping his staff across his body as he investigated us. We wore no distinctive emblems, nothing to verify my claim. "Where is Dorian?" He demanded, his fingers tightening upon the core of his staff.

"Alive," Leliana said, though her tone was hardly reassuring. "If you wish him to remain so, you will help us drive out the magisters."

Still, Rhys appeared skeptical, until a companion of his emerged from the room's only shadowed corner. He appeared a young man, earnest, and I could not place his face, though he seemed oddly familiar. "I've seen them," he told Rhys. "They want to help."

The mage raised a brow at his friend. "Are you sure, Cole?"

"Yes," the younger man insisted.

I was too focused on the task at hand to have noticed his claim to have seen us; I would later learn that Cole was a very peculiar spirit, but by some fortune, or perhaps wisdom, neither Cole nor Rhys revealed that complication. What mattered in that moment was that Cole's endorsement tipped the balance of trust in Rhys' heart. "Very well, Cassandra Pentaghast," he allowed. "If your aim is to release us from the yoke of Gereon Alexius, I am your ally. But we must hurry."

And hurry we did. Rhys and Dorian had already hatched a plan to capture Alexius and allow his son to take control of the Venatori, as the faction of Tevinters who'd come south called themselves. There was already a small network of sympathetic mages in place, awaiting Rhys' watchword. It was a close thing, making it to Gereon Alexius' chambers without raising an alarm. Fortunately Leliana was quite skilled in the arts of infiltration, and this was hardly the first time that the Bull and his Chargers had done the same.

We found him in his study, muttering to himself as he pored over a sheaf of documents, as confident in his security as I was in the necessity of closing the Breach. I introduced myself by silencing his magical talents, and the Chargers followed up with a stunning grenade and a fishing net-it was essential that we capture the man without shedding his blood, for he certainly knew how to call it to his defence, if but a single drop were to weep from his flesh.

When he recovered from the shock of our assault, he looked up to Rhys in confusion. "What...what is the meaning of this?" He wondered, as I secured him with magic-suppressing restraints. "Rhys, I thought we'd come to an understanding," he said, still dazed. "You know what we are building here. Why would you betray me like this?" He seemed not to understand the import of the scenario, nor how tenuous our position was, for he did not cry out for allies to come to his rescue. They would not have succeeded, but they would have made things far more difficult for us.

"He has betrayed nothing," I said, once the man's bonds were secure. "And you are now a prisoner of the Inquisition."

It was only then that the magister deigned to acknowledge my presence. "You think you've won?" He spat, finally showing a modicum of scorn. "You have won _nothing_. When the Elder One rises, all that you cherish will be swept from this world."

"It already has been," I assured him, perhaps a bit hyperbolically, thinking about what still lay in ashes atop Haven. This _Elder One_ could hardly do more to upset the world than had already been done at the Conclave, and I dismissed the threat as simple raving. I had Alexius gagged to keep him from ranting further, as well as in case he came to his senses and attempted to raise an alarm.

By the break of dawn, and without a single casualty from the Inquisition, we reclaimed Redcliffe from its occupiers. Fiona wished to resume her role as leader of the mages, but I judged the risks too great, and I decided to absorb them into the body of the Inquisition. On the other side of the country, Suredat-an would make a similar choice with respect to the surviving templars at Thereinfal.

And so it was in this manner that the Inquisition subsumed the conflict which had raged across Thedas for two years, which had brought Divine Justinia to the top of the mountain above Haven, and which had led to the terrible wound that still haunted the sky. But, when I rejoined Suredat-an in the Crossroads, I felt in my soul that its days were finite, and would soon come to an end.


	10. Chapter 10

I was more pleased than I cared to admit by the outcome of our recent efforts-not only had we subordinated both warring factions, but we had done it without losing a single member of our company. Yet our victory was mixed, and the greater part of our task was yet to come. Once we had brought the mages and templars into our care, we must need bring them to heel, and there were simmering resentments and bitter rivalries between and among both sides that had to be be put to rest before we could go about healing the sky. None are worth mentioning within these pages, except to explain why the closure of the Breach was weeks in the making, even after the outcome in Redcliffe and Thereinfal Redoubt.

I also spent many hours in conversation with Fiona, after she had recovered from her ordeal in Redcliffe's dungeons. She related the story of her illegal subjugation after the Cumberland Conclave, and that of Athadra, three years afterward. They were both made Tranquil as punishment for their crimes, real and imagined. It had been common wisdom for more than a thousand years that the Rite of Tranquility was irreversible, an assumption upon which a great deal of Circle tradition rested; an assumption which was, evidently, false. Fiona was not certain of how the Warden had managed to do so...or, rather, she did not wish to admit it to me, but the events she relayed perfectly described a non-transmutative possession, which was supposed to be impossible for Tranquil mages to undergo. It made me suspicious about Fiona herself, but she showed none of the signs. In any case, the night that Athadra reversed her own Tranquility was the very same night that the White Spire was destroyed, which had delivered on the promise of Anders' actions in Kirkwall. After killing the Lord Seeker and leading the first successful charge of mages against Val Royeaux's templars since the founding of the Chantry, Athahdra had truly disappeared, of her own accord and to her own ends. Her presence and her actions served to answer many questions about the beginning of the war, despite the questions that they raised about the nature of Tranquility and of magic itself.

I was willing to live with those questions, at least for a time, as the resolution to the mystery of Athadra's journey-if not her destination-was enough for Suredat-an to relinquish the last vestiges of her mission to find her former commander. Eventually, inevitably, Suredat-an climbed the mountain above Haven without a splinter in her loyalties, and without a worry about the forces at her back.

And she prevailed.

It was difficult to believe, at first. There were no demons that spilled from the great, green gash as she channeled the combined energy of our corps. A thin strand of power ran from the mark in her hand to the hole in the sky, straining to gossamer across the vertical span. And then, like an enormous beast giving its final, pained breath, the Breach shuddered and gasped, before it finally faded. A scar remained, and remains still, a reminder of what was, and what nearly became of us all.

As laborious as the task had been, I could not begrudge the troops a modicum of celebration. Our soldiers reveled for more than a week under our supervision; the more common folk who had flocked to us as pilgrims were not nearly so conservative in their festivities. For nigh on a month the village rang with bells, the tavern only remaining supplied through heroic effort on Josephine's and Varric's parts, much to their fame among the people. The Herald remained aloof, which detracted nothing from her mystique; those who did not know her generally mistook her austerity for piety, a misperception only aided by her manner of suborning the templars, along with her bottomless courage in freeing them from the spectre of the Breach. It was an easy assumption to make in those heady days, when the greatest concern seemed to be the maintenance of the peace we had won. She kept close counsel with Sera and, oddly, Cole, whose companion Rhys had become something of a mediator for many of the mages. The Iron Bull was satisfied with Suredat-an's conduct, at least enough that he did not see fit to make good on his threat to effect her execution. Vivienne remained, as did Solas and Varric and all the rest, though none of them had strict reason to do so.

I, meanwhile, busied myself with ensuring that we did not fall to bickering and chaos while we investigated the threat posed by the so-called Elder One, whom Gereon Alexius had mentioned on the night of his capture. The Tevinter was then (and remains, to the best of my knowledge) in the bowels of the Chantry, under significant guard and alive only for the pleas of mercy from his son, Felix, and from Dorian, who'd pledged his continued assistance on condition of the man's life. As I understood it, Felix was terminally Ill himself, which had formed part of his father's motive for coming to Ferelden in the first place. Thus far the prisoner was proving uncooperative, and the better part of Dorian's efforts were focused on attenuating the younger man's symptoms, so I was content to let the father languish in our dungeons.

Late one evening Suredat-an sought me in the Chantry's back room as I pored over maps and other papers, as delusional in my sense of security as Gereon Alexius must have been, before I introduced myself to him. "They come," the Herald announced, by way of greeting.

I started at the interruption. "Who comes?" I demanded, though wearily, for I was tired and considering retiring early. I expected some strategy meeting of the other advisors, or perhaps another round of celebration among our elite warriors on the cusp of spilling into this chamber.

What the Herald said instead drove the fatigue from my joints. "The dark ones."

There were few creatures she could have meant, and given her recent association, it did not require a surfeit of imagination to take her meaning. "You can sense darkspawn approaching?"

"More," she claimed. " _Ataashi._ "

It took a pair of heartbeats for me to recall hearing that word, from the Iron Bull, the morning after our success in Redcliffe. We had seen a dragon in the distance, orange in the early light. The Qunari had given that name to the creature, after remarking upon its beauty, and his intense desire to bring it down. I had laughed, then, such had been my mood. I felt none of that levity now, for there was only one context in which a dragon fit logically with darkspawn. "An archdemon," I pronounced. "You are certain?"

"The song grows loud," she replied.

If that were not enough to raise the hair upon my neck, Cullen chose that moment to burst through the doorway, brushing past the pillar that Suredat-an made in his desperation to find me. "Enemies on the mountain path," he declared, breathlessly. At the end of his words I heard the dying echo of our lookouts' horns as they sounded in the distance. "They'll soon be upon us!"

I was running before I had taken the next breath, skirting both the Herald and the commander of our forces in my haste. "Under what banner do they march?"

The question was desperate, even foolish, and its answer did not surprise me any more than it pleased me. "None," Cullen barked, keeping pace with me as we raced the length of the nave. "We have received no envoy, no message for terms. They've come out of nowhere, over the mountains to the south."

We broke through the main doors of a pace, and any reply I had to offer was stolen, along with my breath, by the sight that greeted us: a whole mountainside illuminated by columns of flame, torches beyond the counting lighting the way for a bannerless army, come to sweep us from the face of the earth. "We must begin evacuation," I announced, readying my sword and shield as I descended the stairs.

"I will tend to it," Cullen vowed. "The Chantry is the only defensible building in the village. I can get our people here, but we'll need to engage their vanguard if we're to have any hope of making it."

Though I had not noticed, Suredat-an had kept up with us in our flight through the Chantry, and as I paused to collect my thoughts, she continued on. "Evidently that will not be a problem," I surmised. "I will gather the rest our own vanguard and coordinate the defence of the gates," I told him, before rushing after the Herald.

Most of our companions had already been gathered at the outer gate by the time we arrived, roused there by Varric and the Iron Bull, neither of whom were entirely sober; their state was rapidly improving, however, as they went to work in the face of the advancing enemy. "Hey, boss," the Bull greeted, grinning as though it were a crowd of revelers come to revive the party, rather than a horde of ravening beasts with nothing but murder in their hearts. "Looks like we're getting that _raison d'être_ you've been looking for."

"Indeed," I grunted, relieved when the Herald finally halted, a handful of yards down the path. "Bull, have your Chargers in reserve, ready to screen Cullen's efforts to evacuate our people."

"Sure thing, boss."

It worried me to leave such a formidable warrior unused, but a lifetime of experience gave me some measure of wisdom, and a great deal of discipline. I glanced quickly around, from Solas to Varric, Vivienne to Sera, Blackwall to Suredat-an. Dorian appeared by my side, and Rhys and Cole were not long in following. "Look, there," the Tevinter indicated, pointing to a nearby rise. "That must be him...this _Elder One_ that Gereon won't stop raving about."

I have always been slightly nearsighted, and it was dark despite the torches drawing ever nearer, so I could not make out details...but the creature was clearly large, especially from such a distance, and its silhouette put me in mind of the shadow I had witnessed in the temple, when I had climbed it with the Herald for the first time. "Whatever it is," I pronounced, "it murdered the Divine. If it thinks to visit the same fate upon us, it shall find the task exceedingly difficult."

"That's the spirit," Dorian replied. "I believe I recognise his companion," he said, proving far more sharp of eye than myself. "That must be Calpernia, the leader of the Venatori. I hadn't thought there were enough of them left down here to mount such an assault."

Now that the horde proper was closing in, I saw no reason to conceal the suspicions that Suredat-an had given me. "They are not mages," I announced, to our companions at large, "but darkspawn."

I did not wait to assess the effect of my words, instead moving to join the Herald; though the enemy streamed over a mountaintop, we held the high ground on their path of approach, and given their obvious numerical advantage, the only way to blunt their advance was to use the momentum of the hill. Together, Suredat-an and I broke into a run, with our companions at our heels; we formed the tip of a spear, filled out by the common soldiers we had recruited and trained.

I had never seen darkspawn gathered in such a mob until that night, and I hope never to see such a thing again, as long as the Maker bids me live. It was all I could do to surrender to my own training as the first beasts emerged from the treeline, their flesh as curdled milk, their fists wielding rusted weaponry, with nothing but hunger in their eyes. They ranged in size from the stocky genlocks, on the level of dwarves, which composed the bulk of the force, to the terrible ogre, solitary and enormous; the others seemed to give it an instinctive berth, as though it were too bestial even for their kind.

Yet as horrifying a visage as they presented, the fiends proved to bleed like any other creatures, and to die just as easily when met with proper resistance. The genlocks and human-like hurlocks were most dangerous in numbers, which made up for their lack of coordination and skill, while the ogre was simply massive, unimaginably strong, lacking any regard for its own life in its pursuit of destruction. Suredat-an, Varric, and Sera worked together to bring that beast down, while the rest of us fought the more numerous of the horde. With her usual tenacity, the Herald managed the miracle of grounding the beast-head and shoulders taller than she, as she was above most everyone else. With the aid of our regular troops, we fought to a pocket of watchers set to guard one of the catapults constructed shortly before the sealing of the Breach, and there I happened upon a stratagem for rebalancing our odds.

"Secure the perimeter," I urged our forces; Suredat-an took my instruction to heart, leading a corps of our allies into the throng that had not abated from the valley. Varric looked to join them, or at least provide support from the middle ranks with his crossbow, but some instinct had me reaching out to hold him back. "No," I exclaimed, sounding as obstinate as the Herald. "Come with me; we must turn the catapult to the mountainside."

The dwarf looked up and saw my meaning at once-that, if the stream of fiends were not abated by some means, we would soon be overwhelmed. The risks of triggering a landslide on the very next peak to our own were great, but they were outweighed by our straits. "Let's get to it, Seeker," Varric assented, and we leaned into the work of turning the catapult from its target of the lowland approach to the north face of the southern mountain. It was not an easy task in the face of the onslaught at hand, but we managed to do it. A great hew and cheer went up among our people when the projectile cleared the treeline and impacted the hard-packed snow of the near peak; the victorious cry only increased when an enormous sheet of ice broke free and swept across all three of the advancing lines of darkspawn.

I was in danger of succumbing to that jubilation, especially when the Elder One's shadow passed from the nearby ridge, but I should have known that such celebration would have been premature. Given the struggle against the darkspawn, I had simply forgotten the Herald's second warning, about the dragon...and the Maker was not long in teaching me a lesson of memory that I have yet to forget when He allowed the dragon to crest the top of the mountain and rain purple flame upon our soldiers, and the the village they fought to protect. We had to dive and scatter to avoid its first assault, which ruined the catapult and burnt a handful of good men and women who could not evade the flames.

The dying cheers transmuted into screams of agony and horror as the great winged beast took flight over Haven. Its belly and wings were pitted with corruption, its spiked tail gnarled as a diseased tree. Being Nevarran, from a storied family of dragon hunters, I could tell at a glance that this was no ordinary reptile, even among the flying varieties. "Could it truly be an archdemon?" I wondered, awed and terrified in equal measure as it rained destruction upon our home.

"Yes," Suredat-an insisted, fighting a retreat back to my side; though the landslide had put us on more favourable footing, the dragon's presence had thrown our forces into chaos.

"Everyone, fight to the Chantry!" I commanded. "It is the only building safe from the monster's attack!" I moved to lead by example, but I noticed that the Herald did not fall into step with me. "Come," I insisted. "It is our only hope!"

The qunari stood fast, her eyes tracking the beast's progress across the sky. "No," she told me, as I knew-and feared-she would. Then her silver gaze focused on me, and she _smiled_. "This is my purpose, _basvaarad_."

I hesitated but a moment, understanding full well that if I could not bring myself to gainsay her, she was like to die. In that moment I recalled more conversations with the Iron Bull, who had made it plain that the Herald had entrusted me with her life in every way imaginable; I was master of her decisions, the wielder of her will. I wanted so badly to keep her by my side, to unlock the mysteries that her personality yet held. But such was not the role of an _arvaarad_ , even one not of the Qun. "Very well," I allowed. "The Herald will stay," I announced, to keep uncertainty from tearing at our ranks for the retreat. "Everyone else, with me!"

I did not wait to see who was foolish enough to remain behind, preferring instead to lead the charge back into the village. The rest of the companions we had gathered were wise enough to follow, at least for a time, and we managed to rescue a good number of villagers on our way back to the Chantry. Cullen was at the door, along with Josephine and Leliana; he knew full well that the retreat was not a signal to victory, and his soldier's mind was already committed to making our defeat as expensive as possible to the fiends. I could not disagree, but fortunately the Maker had not completely abandoned us, for Chancellor Roderick offered a solution. He was gravely wounded by a darkspawn, but of mind sound enough to tell us of a pass we might use to flee into the heart of the mountains, where not even a dragon could easily harry us.

As we worked to effect an escape, I noticed that not all who'd retreated from the catapult had arrived at the Chantry's doors. Sera and Blackwall had disappeared en route. The urgence of our circumstance kept me from mounting a rescue; anyone who did not escape with us was surely lost, as we would have been, had we not moved with all speed. Only a few pack animals could be made use of, and more than a handful of wounded civilians could not keep pace with the rest of us as we fled the village, but our survival required a level of heartlessness that still shames me to contemplate. Yet our steadfast refusal to simply perish won out over compassion, and our efforts were rewarded, for neither archdemon nor darkspawn interrupted our flight.

What follows came from Sera's accounting of what she witnessed after she and Blackwall independently decided to rejoin the Herald, still in the midst of battling the darkspawn vanguard, near the second catapult. The elf took a concealed position along the top of the outer wall, whence she might use her bow to its greatest effect. Though she was at some distance for much of the events here described, the range of her hearing was more than adequate to capture them, and I have come to trust her reporting as well as I can from any source.

Blackwall joined the fight more proximately. "Didn't seem right, the only Grey Warden around, running from darkspawn," he offered, in between swings of his sword.

"You are not Grey Warden," Suredat-an pointed out, as she plowed into the line by his side.

"How do you know that?" The man demanded, faltering in his stride for but a moment.

"You do not hear the song," Suredat-an insisted.

He had no argument to offer, instead channeling his frustration into slaying the tainted beasts who would not stop advancing. "Name's Thom," the man allowed, after an interval of bloodshed during which it became clear that a denial was fruitless. "Thom Rainier."

The Herald made no audible reply, but she kept fighting. Between her, Rainier, and Sera, the veritable flood of darkspawn slowed to a trickle. Victory was far from their grasp, however, as the Elder One chose that moment to make its appearance. I would not personally witness it for many weeks to come, but Sera's account accords with my own; it was a tall figure who had once, perhaps eons ago, been a man. Now he was twisted into a parody of one, with exposed ribs, red and black stones growing from his face, and threads of corruption trailing across his frame in the style of ancient Tevinter robes. He stood of a height with Suredat-an, but he stared with the affronted malevolence of an elephant forced to address a field mouse. "You think yourself clever," he observed, "or perhaps powerful. Know that any power you think you wield belongs to me."

Rainier hid his fear well, though his presence had not been acknowledged by the horror before them. "You killed the Divine," he said. "And you'll answer for your crimes." He did not wait for a reply, nor for support from the Herald; instead he launched an assault upon the ancient creature...or he attempted to, at any rate. Before he could close the distance, however, the dragon-the archdemon-swept down from the sky and snatched him up in its jaws. Though he had lived a lie, in the end, Thom Rainier perished as a warrior in the maw of an archdemon, a fate worthy of the moniker of a Warden if I have ever known one.

The Elder One sneered at the man's broken corpse when the dragon was finished, and he advanced sedately toward Suredat-an across the burnt and bloodied snow as the dragon slithered obediently behind him. "Pitiful mortals. I was once like you, lost in ignorance, grasping for any hint of purpose. Now I command the very gods themselves, they who abandoned their thrones and left their charges to fester. You have interrupted a ritual years in the planning, its goal to correct their error. Tell me, mortal, do you remember how you came to wield the power in your hand? The power you flail blindly at rifts?"

Suredat-an stood fast. "No."

"You stole it from me," the Elder One enlightened her, as he came within arm's reach. "And I am here to retrieve what I created."

"No," she said again.

"You are a Grey One," he scoffed. "Your blood stinks of poison, like the dark ones who follow the song. Like them, you are mine to command."

"No."

"I was there from the first," he claimed. "I saw the black foulness of the Golden City, and I witnessed the first of the dark ones crawl beneath the stone. They were mine, and they still are. You are no different." The Elder One attempted to enforce his edict with his own hand, but Suredat-an caught his wrist, and her mark sparked to life. The archdemon gave a terrible cry, and the Elder One tore away with an incredulous snarl, before the dragon bathed the Herald in tainted fire. Sera feared the worst, and was on the verge of divulging her hiding place, when the flames cleared to reveal Suredat-an, alive and unharmed. "The blood protects you from corruption," the Elder One observed, "and the mark protects you from my command. It is no matter; I will start again. The heavens _will_ be filled, the promise of the gods restored, made ever greater by my presence there. But first you must die by my hand...it is only fitting, since I provided your own with such a gift."

"No," the Herald repeated. Rather than attack, however, she sent a cutting tongue of her own fire at the catapult's trigger line, and when it snapped, a trio of boulders arced over them. They crashed into the top of the mountain under which Haven had been rebuilt, which had evidently been the Herald's plan since I had exercised my own strategem. Suredat-an lunged for the dragon, intent on keeping it from escaping, when a gasp from Sera took her attention.

Her stumble gave the Elder One a chance to make his escape; for all his boasts of divinity, the ancient magister lord and his pet could not hope to stand against a mountain falling atop them. The Herald herself should not have survived it, much less Sera, but the qunari moved more quickly than the elf imagined possible. Sera clung to her when they came together, intent only in seeking an instant of comfort before the earth swallowed her whole. Something drove Suredat-an to reject that fate, however. It was the height of fortune, or perhaps the savviest providence, that saw them fall into an abandoned mineshaft just before the snow and rock swept over them. Luck, too, saw the villagers beyond the path of the slide before it had been triggered, though at the time we had no notion as to its cause. We only knew that the village which had provided our sanctuary was no more, taking with it both Gereon and Felix Alexius, along with many wounded innocents. A third of our soldiers had also perished, and half as many would shortly succumb to the taint.

As far as we knew, the Herald and Sera were counted among the victims; we could not pause for grief, however, if we hoped to make good on the promise of our survival. It seemed a small thing to leave Lace Harding behind as a rear scout; she had lost her sister to the dragon's flames, but she held out more hope than the rest of us put together that there may yet be survivors. I did not expect to ever see her again when we parted on the path into the Frostbacks' depths. Luckily for me, and for the world, I was wrong.


	11. Chapter 11

When we settled, at least provisionally, in a sparse valley that had gone untrod by human feet for a thousand years or more, the outlook was bleak indeed. We were no longer the Inquisition, but rather a desperate and disparate rabble, united only in our fear and our quickly-growing hunger. Two days of excuses passed; Leliana, Josephine, Cullen, and I argued with growing rancour and slimming hope about what our next steps should be, as our charges grew weaker by the hour and the diseased among them began to perish. We were in the midst of just such an altercation, each arguing in a different direction to no end but wasted air, when a runner from the edge of our shabby encampment came sprinting to interrupt our quarrel.

"Forgive me, m'ladies, m'lord," she panted, when she came to a staggered halt before us. "We found them...on the path..." Surprise robbed the force from our argument, and as one, the four of us united in our desire for clarity from our interlocutor. Our voices mingled, but the demand was the same, to learn who was on the animal-carved road that had moved her so. "The Herald," she spat, once she had caught her next breath. "And her friend, the elf."

Such an announcement sufficed to put an end to our bicker, at least for that instant. Cullen met my questioning glance, and I saw that we were of one mind. Together we set off in the direction the runner had come from, daring not to breathe our hopes aloud for fear of seeing them dashed. We found them on a hard-packed spit of snow, only recognisable as a path by the fresh boot prints of the scouts set to patrol it; the runner's partner had her back turned as Cullen and I approached, guiding Suredat-an and her charge, and when she turned, I saw that she was Lace Harding, looking dirty and drawn but very much alive. I could only return her grim nod as I drew near enough to resolve the hulking figure from shadow. Cullen was the first to find his voice. "It's the Herald!"

And indeed it was the giant; she limped laboriously, her right arm hanging uselessly by her side, swinging with each pained step. Her left arm was wrapped protectively around the shrouded figure of Sera, whose arms and legs were fixed about the giant's neck and torso, though the elf did not appear conscious. "It cannot be," I mused, unable to comprehend the magnitude of the miracle I witnessed. "You are alive!"

The Herald kept plodding forward, unwilling-or simply unable-to acknowledge her audience. As she drew nearer, I saw her scarred lips move, as though in prayer, though I came to realise that she instinctively muttered a string of incantations, which drew the better part of her focus. "You are here," I insisted, driving forward to stand athwart her path. "You have found us, Suredat-an. You are safe."

The Herald's quicksilver eyes focused upon me with all the speed of an advancing glacier, and she managed to stop her trek before she tripped and bowled us all over. "No," she rumbled.

The answer, so familiar to me by then, came as a paradoxical sort of relief. Laughter tore at my breath, and I reached up, intent on unburdening Suredat-an by taking Sera to the camp under my own power. But the Herald flinched, and Cullen's hand grasped at my forearm with the subtle pressure of warning. "Don't touch either if them," he hissed, and I had but to follow his gaze to interpret his meaning.

Both the Herald and Sera had bled from a dozen wounds apiece, and their bodies were streaked besides with ichor from fallen darkspawn which was no less dangerous for having dried upon their flesh. Cullen brought his torch to bear, and I saw clearly the black tendrils crawling up Sera's neck even as she slept, and my heart leapt into my throat. "It cannot be," I repeated, meeting Suredat-an's gaze once more. "Is there nothing we can do?"

"Yes," the Herald allowed, and I was on the verge of asking for clarification when she provided it. "Move."

I was forced to spectate as the qunari limped each step to our camp without relinquishing her one-armed grip upon her charge. She was not long in drawing attention from the huddled mass of refugees that her actions had helped to save, and soon enough, Cullen and I were occupied with keeping them back, for their own security. Only Fiona broke rank with the crowd, striding forward with naked concern on her face. "I will take her," she pronounced, expectantly.

Suredat-an arched a scabbed brow in my direction, as though it were my decision, and I understood that her earlier concern was solely for my welfare; she left it to me to decide whether any others were worth risking. Fortunately, I also knew that Fiona had once been a Grey Warden, and that she still stood in no danger from the taint. When I gave the Herald a slim nod, she gave over the wounded elf to the grasp of her hale counterpart, and staggered with the effort of rebalancing after Sera's weight was relieved. It was all I could do to keep from extending a hand, as futile-and fatal-as such a gesture might have been.

The crowd parted for Fiona, and she carried Sera to one of the pavilions we had erected in the centre of the camp. The Herald followed her, and I took up the rear, while Cullen remained without in order to disperse the gathered folk. Vivienne and Mother Giselle were within, sharing tea, seeking but a few moments of normality amid the unfathomable stress of our circumstance. "Clear the table," Fiona commanded, her voice echoing with an authority she must have had when she was accorded the title of Grand Enchanter.

Though she had expressed the desire to supplant the elf in the role, at least once the Circles were restored, Enchanter Vivienne quickly moved to obey. She and the revered mother swept their spindly table of its paltry sundries, and they stepped back as Fiona lay Sera down upon it. "Water and lyrium," she said. "Also deathroot and saffron, if you can find any. Any amount of those would suffice, but the lyrium must be in quantity."

The mage and the Chantry woman moved to obey the elder woman's request without question, and I began to understand how Fiona had earned her former position. "What do you mean to do?" I asked, looking from the supine elf to the giant who somehow remained upon her feet. "I thought there was no cure for Blight sickness."

Fiona answered in Suredat-an's place. "There is but one," she allowed. "Though it requires a measure of sanguinity which you might not care to witness."

I did not know what she meant, but I could certainly guess. "Blood magic," I surmised, grimacing, and I glanced at Suredat-an once more. "I have already witnessed far too much of the art to turn my face from it now." I looked to Sera, who shivered with fever, even as she lay unconscious. "She must be saved, if there is any way on the Maker's earth to do it. Tell me what you would have of me."

Fiona nodded in gratitude, and she directed me to gather instruments. This was Vivienne's personal tent, modest by her standards, and so it was well-provisioned with the tools of magic and potion crafting. I located a fine chalice, a knife, and a mortar and pestle for grinding. There was also a small measure of powdered lyrium, though not sufficient for Fiona's purposes, and we could find none of the other ingredients she required.

Vivienne herself was not long in returning, laden with items to redress the deficit. She had made a bargain with Ser Barris and Rhys for a healthy measure of lyrium from each, and deathroot she had secured in abundance; even, miraculously, a sprig of saffron was not beyond the mage's talents of acquisition. Fiona offered Vivienne the same warning that I had been given about the particulars of the ritual, and the human mage gave a reply similar to my own. With great care, we crafted the potion which would save Sera, by taking the Herald's tainted blood into the chalice and concentrating it several times over with the aid of the deathroot, before slaking the mixture with powdered lyrium and saffron to fuse the tincture with the Fade. All three mages added their own magical energies to the concoction under Fiona's guidance, using arts foreign even to my experience, and I was relegated to keeping watch over the dying elf until it was finished.

When that was so, and Fiona held the cup before her, Suredat-an limped forward. I felt the brush of magic, and a moment later, Sera's serene face twisted with agony as consciousness returned. "Hey, you," she managed, weakly, once her greyed eyes found purchase on the Herald's features. "Wotcher."

The corners of Suredat-an's scarred lips twitched up, perhaps even beneath her own notice. "Wotcher," she replied, before her expression dissolved to still water once again. "Do you wish to live?"

The elf took a pained breath that ended in a wet cough, the veins of ichor almost visibly crawling just beneath the translucent surface of her skin. "Yeah," she managed, after recovering her breath. "You can't get rid of me that easy, Buckles."

"Then join us, sister," the giant intoned, after a pause, echoing the words that had been said to her when she herself lay upon the cusp of death. As she went on, Fiona's voice echoed her word for word. "Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten...and that, one day, we shall join you."

Fiona passed the cup to Suredat-an, who in turn held it up to Sera's lips. The elf hesitated for but an instant, and then she drank greedily of the foul mixture, managing three full swallow before it got the best of her. She tensed and convulsed, once, but as she fell back to the table, her chest continued to rise and fall. "She will live," Fiona pronounced. "From this day forward, she will be a Grey Warden."

"Yes," the Herald agreed, and she did not sound pleased by the prospect. Then she woozed, before sinking down to her knees, her placid visage replaced by a rictus of tormented exhaustion.

Again I moved to intervene, only to have Fiona remind me of my own vulnerability to the very curse they had just expunged from Sera, though at great cost. "I will care for her, Seeker," the ambulatory elf assured me. "And I will let you know when it is safe to approach."

I could offer little more than gratitude. "Thank you," I sighed, and I left the tent in the company of its ostensible owner, who appeared hardly ruffled by the eviction, nor by the evening's broader events. It surprised me that she had offered so little protest. I was interested to know the lay of her thoughts, but my curiosity was to be left unsated, for the gathered throng of refugees had not parted. Cries rang out, pilgrims beseeching to know whether the Herald yet lived. Cullen, Leliana, and what professional troops they could muster held back the crowd, but only just. "She lives," I pronounced, wearily. "But she needs peace and time to rest. In Andraste's name, I beg that you will make it so." I spoke words of reason, but my tone was tempered by my years as the Right Hand of the Divine, and my will carried through without being challenged. Slowly the crowd dispersed.

When I let my attention wander, I saw that Vivienne had also departed, off to seek her own ends, beyond my reckoning. With little and less to occupy my nerves, I set to patrolling the ramshackle village we had carved out of mud and canvas upon the stone, knowing that despite-or perhaps because of-the Maker's recent favour, we could not tarry here beyond necessity.

I was unexpectedly joined by Varric at the perimeter of the mages' quarter. "How do you do, Seeker," he said in greeting. When I did not reply to the courtesy, he fell into pace beside me, taking three steps for each pair of mine. It was not the first time of late that we had ambled in silence together in this place, one of us happening upon the other and simply walking for a time. It was...comfortable, oddly, after all of the hours we had passed in tense interrogation.

Except this particular evening the silence was strained, and several times I caught him on the verge of speech, only to pull back into his brooding. "Out with it, dwarf," I groused, when the air grew frustratingly pregnant.

He took a long breath, vapour streaming from his nostrils as he exhaled. "Shit," he allowed, glancing guiltily up at me. "I've been trying to riddle out how to say this without you shanking another book while it's uncomfortably close to the Tethras family jewels..."

"Ugh," I scoffed. "If you wish, we could forego the codex."

I had meant it as a jest, but Varric shuddered regardless, clearly not simply from the cold. "I know who attacked us," he admitted, brusquely. "...I think, anyway."

"You are familiar with darkspawn?" I wondered, my patience sharpened to a fine edge by exhaustion. "Remarkable."

He snorted, more out of frustration than amusement. "I'm talking about the big scary asshole that brought all of those fucking things to our doorstep in the first place. The Old Guy."

"The Elder One?"

"That's the one," he gruffed. "You remember in our little chats in Hawke's sitting room, when I told you about Corypheus?"

I stopped short, my irascibility forgotten for the moment. "You believe he is the fiend we saw?"

He nodded. "I didn't get a good look at him on the hill, but there's only one time I've seen a silhouette like it, and that was in the Vimmarks."

"But in your tale, you said that Athadra killed Corypheus," I recalled, with a grimace. "Were you mistaken?"

"No," Varric demurred. "When we left the bastard on the floor of that tower, he was dead. But he's a thousand-year-old darkspawn, maybe one of the first. Who the hell knows what he's capable of?" He returned my grimace. "And it was more of a team effort, anyhow. You know Merrill and I were there, too. And...Hawke."

A shadow of guilt passed over his face, then, rousing my suspicions. "What about Hawke?"

He cringed, taking a half-step back into the snow. "I...might have a bit of a confession to make," he admitted. He threw up his hands in surrender, and the warrior in me had my eyes flicking to his shoulder, where I saw he had neglected to equip his beloved crossbow.

That served to make me more wary, not less. It was only the respect he had earned, however grudging, which kept me from reaching for my sword. "Speak, then."

"Not here," he beseeched, glancing around. "Somewhere private."

As close-pressed as our quarters were, and as angry as I was already worried of becoming, I knew there would be no chance of privacy anywhere within the camp. "Come, then," I told the dwarf, and I forged past him into the driven snow. We walked into the darkness, beyond even the penumbra of torchlight from our shanty. The night was cloudless, however, and though I have never seen as an eagle from a distance, I acquit myself rather well in near darkness, so we were in little danger of falling as long as I kept my wits. "Speak," I commanded, once I judged our distance even beyond the elves' hearing. "Make your confession."

He huffed from the trek, billows of steamed breath making a silent plea for moments as they rose from his parted lips. "I lied," he admitted, once he had caught his breath. "About Hawke, I mean."

My eyes narrowed. "You think I had not surmised as much, dwarf? Or do you truly imagine me so foolish as to believe you a coward, even after all this time?"

"I guess not," he sighed, pulling his overcoat more tightly about him in a vain attempt to ward off the cold. "But it's more than _where_ she is, Cassandra," he pressed. "It's _who._ " His use of my pronomen surprised me; I could not recall if he had ever called me by my name, at least within my hearing. As far as I could recollect, he had been as fastidious as a Qunari in referring to me by my occupation. Calculated or not, I found my anger arrested, though it was hardly abated. I nodded for him to continue, not trusting myself to interject. "Hawke is...different, from the character in my story. And not just the _real woman doesn't live up to the legend_ sort of way, either." He rubbed his jaw, thick with several days' growth. "Tell me who you think Hawke is," he demanded.

The questioned confused me. "She is the Champion of Kirkwall," I rejoined.

"Yeah," he conceded. "That's _what_ she is...or was, anyhow, before Isabela finally convinced her to get the fuck out of there." He shook his head, looking off into the dark for a long moment, until he seemed to come to a decision, and he once again met my gaze. "What's her name?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Her name," he repeated. "Tell me Hawke's first name."

My brows drew together in my confusion. "Cethlenn," I said, "as I have heard it reported to me from several reputable sources."

The dwarf managed a stuttered laugh, made frigid by the brisk air. "And all of those reputable sources come back to me, in one form or another. And I lied my hairy ass off to everyone who'd listen."

I still did not comprehend the magnitude of the dwarf's deception. "Hawke is flesh and blood," I insisted. "You could not have conjured her from nothing." There had simply been too many witnesses to her presence.

"Not from nothing," he admitted. "But Cethlenn Hawke doesn't exist, except in my story...and an unmarked grave outside if Lothering, if she's lucky."

Only then did I begin to understand, and the sheer audacity of the man's claim kept me grounded. "Then who...?"

Varric shrugged once more. "It's amazing what you can do with a little sunshine," he allowed. "Which we could use right about now, by the way."

"Are you referring to Bethany Hawke, or are you being literal?"

"Both," he hissed, shivering more obviously. I was still too shocked to feel anything but numbness from the cold. "The story I told you-the one in my book-is accurate in every way, except all the details are wrong. And...I figured it was time to come clean about it, given...things."

And he told me the truth about the Champion, then. The tale Justinia had urged me to hear, rather than the tissue of lies he had reinforced during his interrogation. I will not belabour the details within these pages, but I shall relate the bare facts as succinctly as I can manage. The Tale of the Champion had as its protagonist a woman by the name of Cethlenn Hawke, jovial of tongue and utterly lacking in any magical talent, both of which were made up for by her more modest sister, Bethany. Their brother, Carver, had supposedly perished in the flight from their childhood home of Lothering; Bethany was recruited into the Grey Wardens two years thence, and two years later still Cethlenn became the Champion of Kirkwall in a duel with the Qunari Arishok _._

But that was just the story. The truth, as Varric related it to me upon that frozen mountainside, was far more audacious. According to the dwarf, it was Cethlenn who had died in Ferelden, protecting her family from an ogre. Carver survived, first to become known as Hawke during their first two years in Lowtown; in the story, Varric had blessed him with the nickname of _Junior_ , both as a personal rib and to occlude his connection to his fraternal twin. For her part, Bethany was much as the tale described, at least until shortly after the siblings' Ill-fated trip to the Deep Roads. There she was indeed taken into Athadra's care as a Warden. When the Wardens returned to Kirkwall on Athadra's business, however, events conspired to thrust the young woman in the path of destiny. Largely unknown to the nobility of Hightown, she made her own name as Hawke when a mysterious eruption of darkspawn nearly destroyed the city's Alienage and she stood amidst those who drove them back; later, Bethany became known among the city's nobility by eloquently eulogising her mother after her death at the hands of a depraved blood mage. Not long after, she cemented her fame by leading the city's defense against the northern invaders. She fought with blades and skill both forged by Athadra's hands, with mages at her side to cover for her own uses of magic, which allowed the gullible survivors of the Arishok's assault on Viscount's Keep to believe that she was mundane. Such naïveté allowed an uneasy accord between the new Champion and Knight-Commander Meredith, at least for a time. After that, the course of events proceeded more-or-less in accordance with Varric's official version of events; in the end, their city in flames, Bethany and her fellows fled, taking ship and scattering to the east, pausing along the Wounded Coast only long enough to unceremoniously dump her mantle and armour over the side.

Once he had finished, it was near dawn, and we were near frozen. "Anyway, that's it," he shuddered. "I wanted to tell you, before..."

As weary and cold as I was, I did not forgive the hitch in his voice. "Before what?"

"Before one of Leliana's birds finds her and brings her to us, if there's still an _us_ by then."

My surprise reinvigorated and warmed me. I was tempted to anger, though the cold cut through it, and I felt an odd sense of relief that my mission might finally succeed. "The Champion is coming?"

"I figured that we were fucked," he gruffed, "until Harry came stumbling in out of the dark. Then...I thought maybe we might have a chance, after all. And if so, we're going to need to face off against the Elder One sooner or later. And if that thing _is_ Corypheus, there's only one person I can think of that might be able to help us kill it for good and all."

"Hawke," I surmised.

"The Warden," he corrected, with a dark chuckle. "But I really _don't_ know how to find _her._ So...I guess Sunshine's our best bet." He stamped his feet and rubbed his gloved hands together to bring some life back into them. "Now, if you're not gonna stab me again...can I go to bed? Before I freeze to death?"

"You may go," I allowed, still mulling over the revelations he had shared with me. If nothing else, they explained some of Suredat-an's more contradictory statements about the Champion, and some lingering doubts that I had still harboured. I resolved to corroborate as much of the story as I could with Cullen, who had resided in Kirkwall for the years in question, even if he had not been in a reliable state of mind for much of that time. Though I resigned myself to the inevitability that he would likely be in no mood to talk until we had restored our lyrium supplies, which itself necessitated finding a more permanent home.

That was a much greater challenge, though it had been made possible by the Herald's miraculous return. I did not then know the details that I have shared above, and to this day I am uncertain of just how Suredat-an dragged Sera and herself from beneath the fluss of the avalanche she had caused, but I knew that the feat both presaged and required yet further miracles shortly to come. I was taken with these thoughts as I trod in Varric's distant wake, so much so that I was taken aback by the sudden appearance of Solas before me. I was too chilled to present a challenge, and as he approached, I saw that he walked unperturbed by the elements. Indeed, when he drew near, I felt myself enveloped by the warmth of his magical aura. Rather than shrink back in fear or strike out in anger, I sighed with relief, though I arched a questioning brow at him, regardless. "I hope you do not mind my inadvertent eavesdropping," he broached. "But I had to remain near enough to catch you before you made a fruitless return to camp, as you and I have matters of similar import-and confidence-to discuss."

The mage's arcane energy revivified my frozen flesh, yet in my exhaustion I knew I could not avoid or overpower him if his purposes were nefarious. In any case, the apostate's conduct had earned him a measure of confidence, if not precisely trust. "Very well," I allowed. "Let us speak, then."


	12. Chapter 12

The matters that Solas and I discussed on the frozen path involved Corypheus and the orb he carried, which Solas claimed to have recognised at a distance as elven in origin, which in turn caused him great concern that our ranks would soon be divided along racial lines unless we found a purpose to unify us once more. It was clear that Corypheus was not himself an elf, though that would be no impediment to laying blame for the Divine's death and Haven's destruction at the feet of the likes of Solas and Sera and Fiona, or more likely the dozens of elves from Ferelden and Orlais who counted among the pilgrims still alive. I agreed that such an outcome would be a foolish waste, both for its own stupidity and because it would likely result in the dissolution of the Inquisition and the resumption of chaos across southern Thedas, bit I had yet to process the information that Varric had revealed in his confession, much less put thought toward the morrow.

"We must be led," the apostate enjoined. "Now that Suredat-an has returned, we have little enough reason to remain on this hardscrabble rock, and many reasons to be elsewhere."

"Why come to me with all of this," I wondered, after a moment's reflection. "Why not Vivienne or Cullen, or even the Herald?" I knew that Solas misliked me for my former profession as much for my continued faith, and in turn I tolerated him only for the aid and advice he had proven capable of rendering.

"Vivienne is interested in power, certainly," he conceded. "Yet her motives for its acquisition are unknowable," he claimed, "especially to me. And while Cullen is more transparent and less ambitious, he has but one solution in mind for all problems-no matter the hole, it must be filled with a nail. Neither are suitable candidates give the Inquisition proper leadership, which it so desperately needs, if we are to survive the coming darkness."

"And you believe me so capable of driving us?" I wondered, driving to the heart of the matter. "I, who could not sieve the truth from Varric's tissue of lies to even discern Hawke's true identity, much less press her into becoming Inquisitor? I who could not save the Divine?"

"You discount yourself far too easily, Seeker," he insisted. "Whom else could we invest with the proper authority?" And then I understood that he spoke not simply of guiding the refugees out of the valley, but of taking the mantle of Inquisitor myself, which I had given no thought to up until that very moment. Evidently Solas had given the matter a great deal of attention during his meditations. "Leliana is too enwrapped by her intrigues to openly engage with power brokers," he continued, enunciating the candidates and discrediting them before they could rise from my tongue. "While Josephine is too involved in the Game to know when silk must be parted with steel. And Giselle is too obviously a relic of a Chantry which drove us off of this precipice in the first place."

"You have not mentioned the Herald," I observed. "The people already regard her as sent by the Maker; they would follow, if she cared to lead them."

"And yet she will not," he replied, as I realised he would. "She has already deferred to your command; to ask her to revoke that deference and take charge in her own right might be taken as a rejection, and we cannot predict how Suredat-an might respond. And even were she inclined, our Herald is hardly disposed to leadership; if Cullen's nature is too martial to adequately balance force with subtlety, I shudder to think where the Herald's unbridled aggression would take us. Furthermore, she can read only the rudest words in the King's Tongue, and she cannot speak a word of Orlesian. That may not be required of an avatar of faith, but I do not believe such a deficit would stand us in good stead for engaging with Imperial politics."

That was all true enough, especially regarding the Herald's disposition and literacy; while she was greatly skilled in magic and highly competent-even peerless-in combat, she lacked the education the Game required...which was just as well, as she she also lacked even the merest modicum of desire to play it. "Even so," I argued, "I am hardly less rigid in my thoughts toward force than Cullen, and my history with the Chantry would complicate matters. It would be better for our leader to have no affiliation."

"I have no affiliation," Solas pointed out. "Neither does Varric, for that matter. Surely you cannot imagine either of us striking an adequate figure...certainly not as adequate as you would cut, the rogue Seeker who defied the clerics and protected the Herald of Andraste so that she could seal the Breach." He smiled wolfishly in the pre-dawn shadow. "You know we have been without a leader for too long, Cassandra, and you know that there is no one else. As uncertain as you may feel, as vexed and shamed by your failure to anticipate the assault on Haven or your inability to wrangle the truth from Varric, you are the only one among us capable of leading."

I did not want to concede his point, too troubled and exhausted to see the sense in his words. Furthermore, I did not aspire to the position; I had spent my life in service, and though I had given many orders, I had (and have) little desire to make strategic decisions and to bear the responsibility for their consequences. This may now seem like false modesty, but my mind was made up only because I could not find the fault in Solas' argument, and I could not deny the pressing nature of our need. "Very well," I conceded, grudgingly and at length. "Though it seems academic at this point; what the taint does not rob from us may well be carried off by wolves or stolen away by the cold. Yet I fear that if we descend from the mountains, we shall scatter, or be lost to a renewed assault by Corypheus."

A cunning edge entered the apostate's eye. "I have given some thought to this matter as well," he allowed. "And I believe I have a solution. In my travels I have encountered many old and abandoned places, soaked in history even as they are forgotten by time. One such place is not far from here...perhaps two days' scouting, and only a few more to secure a passable route."

My suspicion sharpened. "Why have you waited so long to suggest this place, if you thought it suitable?" I envisioned a derelict tenement, or perhaps a cave fortified by a long-extinct mountain tribe...perhaps, if we were fortunate, without any bears to drive away.

"That is easy, Seeker," the elf replied. "Until the Herald returned, there was no point in trying to keep us unified...without our symbol, we have no purpose, and no hope of success. And until you agreed to lead us, there was no point in giving us proper shelter, since any comfort would only provide the leisure for bigotry to take rook. Now that purpose is restored and leadership is being assumed, we have reason and fortune on our side." He turned, as if to go back to camp, but he glanced over his shoulder at me before he went. "Use this, Cassandra. Suredat-an will not leave Sera's side for the foreseeable future, and the others will remain riven by indecision and worry. Scout out the mountains to the north; there you will find a keep worthy of the Inquisition. Lead us to safety, and we will follow you into peril." I had no response to give to his pronouncement, and he seemed to require none, for he melted away into the fading darkness without another word.

As for his advice, and his demand, I could claim confidence in neither. I admit, as dawn's light filtered through the eastern peaks, I was distracted by my own fears about the future, about Corypheus and the daunting task of upsetting his plans, of slaying him, if such a thing were possible. There, alone at last, and for the first time since Justinia's death, I prayed for guidance. As always, the Maker met my pleas with silence, but as I turned the details over in my mind, I found I got no closer to a satisfactory resolution of Solas' observations. My convictions solidified, even if my doubts about my competence and even the justice of my cause remained. I had designed the Inquisition, I had conferred with the Divine in the conception of its promise, and I had been tasked with finding a leader worthy of driving its purpose. In my single-minded pursuit of Hawke for the role I had not found success, and so counted myself a failure...but it seemed just possible that the Maker had crafted events so that I could not but assume the mantle myself. If no one else were truly worthy, I would have to make my best attempt, lest Justinia's faith-and sacrifice-prove to be in vain.

I returned to the camp only long enough to gather supplies and a pair of scouts to accompany me for an expedition to the north; Lace Harding found the will and the courage to brave the elements once again, along with a young man named Sylvain de Honteux, who hailed from the Dales, and who had decided that the Inquisition was more worthy of his time than training to be a _chevalier_ in Val Royeaux. The two of them proved invaluable over the coming days, and I could not have survived the journey without them, much less discover and guide our people to the ancient stronghold that would become our home. On the third morning after departing the shanty town, the three of us crested a rise, only to stop short at the scene which greeted us. There, in the middle of the rime-laden mountains so far from any habitation, lay a pristine and verdant valley, ready for cultivating. It was commanded by a fortress which appeared to have been constructed before the Steel Age, though its thick walls and outbuildings appeared solid from a distance, solid enough to present a formidable challenge to any would-be conquerors.

This was Skyhold, and finding it was the answer to my prayers. Its fields lay fallow but fertile, its stones in need of reinforcing and dressing with timber, and its halls in want of footsteps and voices to fill them, but it would more than serve. As I explored the ruin with Lace and Sylvain, I became convinced that it could, and _would_ , become the seat of power for the Inquisition. A place where we might build something truly marvelous, if only we could be guided properly. We lost more refugees to illness and desertion on the more arduous journey, until we numbered perhaps half of our zenith at Haven, but those who persisted saw their faith rewarded when they arrived at the valley. It seemed a true miracle, and Solas' predictions proved accurate, for I found myself being regarded even among my colleagues with a heightened esteem and respect at the accomplishment, which Solas had no interest in claiming the slimmest credit for. Suredat-an was still an object of reverence, but in the weeks that followed our habitation of the ruin, the people began to rely upon my judgment for more secular concerns. When the first steady supply caravans began arriving from our allies in the Hinterlands, our presence was firm enough to make my role official.

I did not wish to make a grand gesture, but Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen insisted that the common folk would expect a celebration, and I could not deny that they deserved one, besides. Harritt had taken over the undercroft of the fortress, setting up a specialist forge where he could outfit our principal warriors, and he set to work crafting a marvelous bastard sword and a stalwart kite shield. Both were forged with metal reclaimed from Skyhold, enhanced with wood and stone salvaged from Haven, and emblazoned with the emblem of our cause. Their wielder would be recognised all over Ferelden and Orlais, and soon across all of Thedas, as the Inquisitor.

When the hour of their completion arrived, I was on a ruined section of the battlements, assisting the ongoing work of clearing rubble from the walls. We had the splendid fortune to count among us master stonemasons from above ground and below, dwarven and human, and even a Tevinter elf of Dorian's acquaintance who'd been indentured to a quarry overseer before earning her freedom; they would put their expertise to use in reshaping and reusing the stones which the less skilled among us gathered from the ruined sections, and I was all too glad to set my hands to gathering materials and clearing patrol routes. The solitude was also a welcome reprieve from the near-constant sessions held by the small council of Josephine, Cullen, Leliana, and myself that had to do with the gargantuan task of rehabilitating the fortress. The air should have been chilled by the first wisps of winter, but the magic of this place and the nature of my work kept me warm; truly, I should have been more concerned by the power threaded through the keep, and I should have asked myself why it had been abandoned if it truly were so defensible and its environs so lush as they seemed. Yet, like most of the pilgrims in my charge, I had been exhausted by events, and I was all too grateful to recuperate some place that seemed so welcoming and safe.

The tranquility and silent meditation of my labour was broken by Varric, who had kept a respectful distance after our night-long conversation, perhaps out of fear that I was not as magnanimous about his deception as I had let on. He would not have been entirely wrong in that assumption, but the truth was that I had been so engaged by the task Solas had set me to that I had had little energy to ruminate upon the dwarf's lies, and how easily I had swallowed them. Doubtless my thoughts would have differed had my mind been free to turn them over more than once, yet as he approached, I found my soul had little room to spare for spite.

"It's time, Seeker," he broached, once I paused hauling long enough to acknowledge his presence as I took a ladleful of water. "Harritt's done, and the others are ready. That is...if you're sure you want to do this."

His concern was surprising, though it was not misplaced; I had given much of what spare attention I could muster to the problem of finding a more suitable Inquisitor, the same task Justinia had given me, and I was still no closer. "I do not wish it," I admitted, quietly. "Yet it must be done, Varric. Unless you suggest after all this time that we wait and give the title to Hawke, in my stead." I admit that a certain edge of bitterness may have echoed in my voice as I regarded him.

"Of course not," he gruffed. "And Andraste knows I sure as hell don't want the job. But if you want out, Seeker, now's the time."

I heaved a labourious sigh. "Let us go, then, dwarf." I set off, limping slightly, my pace slow enough for him to keep up.

"Alright," he conceded, as we walked. "Just...don't go changing on me, now."

I shared a glance with him as we began descending the stairs into the upper keep's garden, and I saw a selfish concern there that I had not truly earned; somehow, despite our contentious introduction, Varric had come to regard me as a friend, and he would rue the loss of that friendship, if duty compelled me to forswear it.

A sudden compulsion took hold of me, and I offered him a small smile. "I will not," I promised him, rashly. "So long as you do not lie to me," I qualified, though something moved me to moderation. "Unless it is truly necessary."

He did not reply, at least not verbally, but he kept stride with me across the garden and into the great hall, where the small council-soon to be _my_ small council-was gathered, along with Suredat-an and the close allies we had gathered (though Sera stood at a surprising distance from the Herald, and neither seemed overly interested in reducing the span between them). And Harritt, of course, bearing the fruits of his craft, which also included a helmet with beveled cheekplates and a nose guard. It was a rare design, different than I was accustomed to, but it would serve just the same...or better, as it would come to be recognised by friend and foe alike, its owner unmistakeable.

Blackwall's stolid figure was notably absent from the gathering, and in his shadow's wake stood the ghosts of all the others I could not save, in Haven and beforehand. I thought, briefly, of Regalyan, and then of Anthony, the brother I had lost in my youth. Their spirits all weighed heavily upon my shoulders, tempering my fear with the duty to avenge them. "Are we ready?"

Josephine bit her lip anxiously, but Leliana nodded without hesitation. "We have been ready since Justinia left us," she declared, favouring me with a rare smile. "Do you know what you will say to our people?"

I felt my stomach clench with nerves; I have never been wont to demagoguery, despite the accomplishments and positions I had thitherto been granted, and would go on to achieve. Yet I was not a mewling child looking to shirk her duties, withal. "I will address them adequately," I assured her.

Cullen spoke up, evincing either ignorance or optimism. "The Herald should also speak."

"I am not _tamassran_ ," the qunari replied, employing five syllables more than I had expected. It nevertheless stood as refusal enough for Cullen to recall whom he addressed, and he did not press the point. For her part, Suredat-an kept her attention toward the door, in my direction, so that her view took in neither the marshal nor the archer; I made a note to inquire about the frost which had grown between the pair that had only recently been inseparable.

"You will not have to say anything," I assured the Herald, before casting a final sweeping glance over these gathered allies, from Vivienne to Cole, Rhys to the Iron Bull, and everyone between. "We are ready," I judged, and with that, I turned to the great double doors which led to the grand staircase to the upper courtyard. There I found a scene that filled my warrior's soul with hope, and my child's heart with dread; a great mass of people waited at the mouth of the stairwell, all those who survived the desperate flight from Haven, and a few pilgrims who arrived with the recent shipment. They were all gathered to witness my elevation, and to celebrate the fact of their continued existence, as miraculous as that seemed. When the great mass saw us emerge from Skyhold and take position on the great stairway's middle landing, an unruly cheer broke out which took took our _de facto_ sergeants many moments to bring to sufficient order. As I looked upon them, what I saw at once cheered me and broke my heart; the haggard and half-starved folk appeared so beatific at our reversed fortunes that one could not help but feel the gaze of the Maker reflected in their eyes, if He would have spared this world even a glimmer of a glimpse. Yet even in their pious joy at their deliverance, they were fractured into factions, with templars off to the right side, mages to the left, and humans generally taking the fore while the elves and what few dwarves were subtly pushed back toward the stronghold's gates. As Josephine and Cullen took their places beside me and the Herald's shadow fell upon us from behind, I took a mind to addressing that worrisome development, recalling Solas' private concerns shared on the mountainside. I record my words here not out of vanity, but so that they may be judged for their intent and their effect, both good and ill.

"We live," I pronounced, to a resumed cry of victory, united in the relief of its locutors. I spoke the phrase in the King's Tongue first, for that language was then primary among the survivors, but I repeated it in Orlesian, mindful that a significant body of our followers were conversant in that tongue as well. I suspected that their language was another point of division among the pilgrims, less visible to us on the stairs than race or profession, but still vital to bridge, regardless. When the cry diminished, I continued in that manner, repeating my words in both tongues, though I will record them only once here, for the reader's convenience along with my own. "We live, but we have been wounded, driven from our homes by a madman who commands monsters and men. His name is Corypheus, and he does not care what our talents are, nor from which people or nations we hail. He has but one goal in mind for us: our utter destruction. And, should he succeed, he will not stop until the whole of the world has been consumed.

"You think yourselves safe here, behind these walls of stone; you think yourselves on the verge of bounty, from a valley which keeps green, even as winter begins to climb down from the mountains. But walls may be breached, and harvests may be spoilt. The sky is mended, but it is not truly healed; a scar remains plain for all to see, and that scar may be torn open at any moment, to flood our world with more twisted spirits, perverted by Corypheus' ambition. We have already witnessed his mastery of the Blight...with an army of darkspawn, there is no limit to what he might conquer, given that there are no longer any Grey Wardens within a thousand leagues of us to check them."

The people's jubilant mood had collapsed, replaced by the beginnings of fear, suspicion, and even terror. I could sense disapproval and anxiety radiating from my colleagues, but I forged on, determined to correct the disunity I had observed. "Yet Corypheus is not invincible, and he is not infallible. He has been captured before, and he has been defeated. And his greatest mistake occurred in these very mountains; rather than eradicate us from the face of Thedas, he failed. We looked into the depths of his ambition and we refused to be annihilated. It cost us dearly, and many of our loved ones will never again stir from the snow's embrace, but it was nevertheless a victory.

"Ours was not a victory won my templars or by mages. The battle was not carried by humans or turned by elves; Fereldans did not rescue us, and Orlesians did not keep Corypheus at bay," I insisted. "The _Inquisition_ was attacked, and the Inquisition fought. The Inquisition won.

"The Inquisition is what stands between Corypheus and his designs. Look around you to your neighbours, far and near. They are each of them the Inquisition, regardless of the turning of their tongues, the shape of their ears, or the power in their veins. When Corypheus comes, it will be they who stand atop these walls to repel him, and it will be they who drive his darkspawn and his Venatori back across the valley; it will be they who send Corypheus himself to the Void. The only question is you; will you join them? Will you fight by their side? Will you die for them, and honour their sacrifice if they die in your stead?"

Each question increased in tenor, and by the third one, another great cry swept over the courtyard. "We are the Inquisition," I told them, from the bottom of my lungs. "And soon the world will know that we have an Inquisitor."

I nodded, sick unto death of rhetoric, and my companions took over. Leliana handed me the magnificent blade of Harritt's, while Josephine secured my shield, and Cullen berated the crowd's renewed zeal into focus. He asked three times if they would follow, and three times the people affirmed their intentions. Lastly, but perhaps most importantly, Suredat-an stepped forward. She said nothing, but she turned toward me after half a dozen steps down, and she lifted my new helmet. I secured it in time to see her kneel before me on the stairs, and my heart leapt into my throat when I saw the people of the courtyard mimic the motion; the Herald of Andraste, the beating heart of the Inquisition, channeled its devotion without speaking a word, and I was humbled and awed by the display. My advisors quickly bent the knee as well, and within a few breaths, I was the only person left standing for leagues in any direction. It was irrevocable, now...the Inquisition had an Inquisitor.

And I was she.


	13. Chapter 13

Becoming Inquisitor entailed new privileges, but also heightened responsibility, and a surprising lack of autonomy when it came to my personal choices. I was essentially forced to abandon the modest quarters I had carved out of the second floor of the common forge, where I might be warmed by the coals already burning rather than need to waste my own; Leliana and Josephine became the masters of my sleep, lodging me in a grand apartment at the summit of the central tower, both for my security and for the perceptions of the allies we hoped to reingage. Rather than the final and best defence of a noble ideal, I was the embodiment of the ideal which needed defending. Rather than standing as the shield in the darkness, I had guards seen and unseen whose sole occupation was my security. The unease of my sleep in those first few nights put me in mind of Justinia; had she slept so restlessly, even-or perhaps especially-with men and women of my kind watching over her?

Fortunately for my sanity, the position of Inquisitor did not remove me from the field; if anything, it was more urgent than ever that I lead an excursion beyond our sheltered valley, in order to reestablish our presence in the minds of the people beyond the valley's scope. There was also a more pressing reason, at least to my mind: Leliana received word that a small band of soldiers loyal to our cause had become imprisoned in the swamps on the edge of the Korcari Wilds by a dislocated tribe of Avvar barbarians, whose band leader demanded combat with the Herald to prove the Maker's worthiness. It would have been a thin excuse but for the dozen lives at stake, and Suredat-an needed no cajoling to seek further combat. She and I were accompanied by Vivienne, Dorian, and the Iron Bull, along with a small rearguard to secure the camps we would make along the way. The others remained; Solas to explore Skyhold's mysteries, Varric to intercept Hawke upon her uncertain arrival, Rhys and Cole because I did not yet trust the spirit enough to have him along, and Sera for reasons I had yet to discern, for neither she nor the Herald had proven amenable to inquiry.

The journey was far from boring, even without the elf's boisterous presence to prod the Herald into conversation. Notwithstanding the rifts and bandits we must need redress along the way, Suredat-an and I spent the days amused by the banter of the mages and the Qunari. The Iron Bull had grown less reserved after the assault on Haven, more willing to share a word and a drink with people beyond his mercenary company, whom he had entrusted to the Inquisition to use as we saw fit. In fact, as my companions and I ranged south through the foothills, Krem and his forces were set to scout the ruins we had all fled, in hopes of fishing something of worth from the rubble. I could tell that the Bull fretted over them, in spite of his frequent bravado. We had a mission of our own, however, such as it was, and he gave it his full attention when it mattered.

The details of our task are barely worth recording; on the way to the Fallow Mire, we reestablished contact with a good many allies in the Hinterlands who had given our cause up for lost, men and women who vowed to spread word of the miracle of our survival. Of the bog itself there is little to note...the petty warlord perished at the Herald's hands, and our surviving soldiers were repatriated to gentler climes, and given the choice to rejoin our cause or retire in view of the service they had already given. Most who could be rehabilitated returned with us to Skyhold, and those who could not remained among the people, becoming unofficial ambassadors in their communities.

Of greater interest to history is what took place at Skyhold during our absence, events which I will relay here in some detail, though I was occupied for some weeks in the south and so not present for much of what follows. I have verified these events as best I am able, relying on the actors involved and other witnesses, and I am confident that I have attained a reasonably accurate accounting in absentia. The simplest summary is that Hawke and her lover arrived at Skyhold, but this is insufficient to correct the record. If you have read Varric's _Tale of the Champion,_ as I had, then you may still harbour misapprehensions about Hawke that my earlier exposition failed to address. She really _is_ Bethany, for a start, and not the long-dead Cethlenn of the tale.

Therefore we begin our examination in West Hill, a small fishing bannric on Ferelden's northern coast. Bethany and Isabela would normally have avoided it owing to its proximity to Kinloch Hold, the site of the Fereldan Circle, which in normal times meant templars would never be far. For the details of Varric's story were not all false; Bethany was indeed Isabela's lover and lieutenant, as well as an apostate of great skill, and thus had reason to fear both guards and templars. But the situation was far from normal, owing in no small measure to Bethany's own actions, and so the pirates landed in the port town without much concern for secular or clerical authority. Their ship was called the _Falcon's Wing_ , crewed by cutthroats and thieves and Bethany's dearest friends-who, admittedly, were also cutthroats or thieves or both. Yet they were all fiercely loyal to their captain and her first mate, so much so that they were willing to sit idle in port while the two women roved inland. It was not an easy decision for anyone involved, but I am told that Merrill, Carver Hawke, and an elf called Bright Eyes remained behind to keep watch over the ship and its crew.

The journey inland was guided by a pair of agents of Leliana's, birds meek enough to gain their trust yet subtle enough to be in the Nightingale's employ. That they carried letters bearing Varric's signature and his family seal helped their charges sleep a bit more soundly, but if either of them got a full night's rest before arriving in the valley, I would be surprised to learn it. When they did make it, though, their doubts were allayed by the great project of hope and restoration that the pilgrims were making, within the fortress and without it.

Evening fell just as the party reached Skyhold's high drawbridge, where Varric stood waiting, with an air of affected impatience, as though a card game stood suspended until their arrival. "Thought you two'd never get here," he said in greeting, before turning and gesturing for them to follow. "Come on, I'll show you the sights."

"To the Void with the sights," Isabela dismissed. "I've seen enough sights for a dozen lifetimes in the last week. _I'm_ going to the tavern."

Varric chuckled and Bethany shook her head, but they could do little else but follow the pirate as she led the way-without having to he told-to the building in question _._ "It's not the _Hanged Man_ ," Varric admitted, as they approached the threshold, "but it serves."

Bethany was about to speak, to inquire about her friend's welfare and reassure him of her own, when her blood whispered in the back of her mind. The call was familiar, an echo she had not properly heard in years, but still it set her on edge, regardless. "Is Sura inside?"

"No," Varric allowed, in subtle mockery of the tone the Herald might have used. Then he grinned. "Harry's off galavanting with the Seeker, and anyway, she doesn't drink."

Isabela gasped just as she pushed through the door. "And they call this place the _Herald's Rest_?!" She demanded with faux outrage. "I think I deserve a free round, for false advertising if nothing else."

Varric rolled his eyes. "You want to try that line, you take it up with Cabot, be my guest. He's no Corff, though."

She smirked devilishly. "We'll have to see about that." And she stalked off into the crowd, as though she had patronised the establishment for years...never mind that the _establishment_ had only been opened for business for a tiny sum of weeks.

Varric said something else, but he soon saw that Bethany was distracted, standing in the doorway with a look of concern on her face. "What's up, Beth?" He used her first name because it was too dangerous to address her by his customary nickname of Sunshine, or her family name of Hawke. Unlike me, most of our followers still had no idea that the Hawke of his story was little more than a well-groomed myth.

"There is a Grey Warden," she whispered, just loudly enough for him to hear. "Close." She did not set another foot into the tavern, her eyes tending toward the ceiling. "And they know I'm here."

"Ahh," Varric sighed. "That. I would've told you, but what with one thing and another, I must've forgotten." He glanced up over his shoulder, at nearly the same place Bethany's eyes caught. "During the attack, a lot of our people got tainted," he admitted, his own tone dropping low, covered by conversation and the minstrel's chords. "Sura saved one of them. Good...I'd say _friend,_ but I don't know if the Herald has any of those. Anyway, they've not spoken much since then, and I've been too busy to check in on her." He shook his head and stepped aside, giving Bethany room to enter. "Poor kid's named Sera. I'm sure she could use a good talk with someone who understands what it's like to wake up a Warden."

Sympathy as much as curiosity moved her to the stairway, but it was her Warden senses which guided her steps, that insidious connection all Wardens shared with one another and with the darkspawn they were bound by blood and honour to fight. It was that inevitability that lay behind her reception, for when Bethany knocked upon Sera's door, she was meekly bid entrance, only to come face-to-face with an arrow trained at the the confluence of her collarbones. "Dunno who the fuck you think you are," the elf spat, in much less mild tones than she'd bid the stranger enter, "but you're gonna back away if you wanna keep talking out of the one hole."

In response Bethany lifted a hand, ostensibly a placating gesture, and she offered the stranger a smile. "I'm not here to take you away," she claimed, still framed by the doorway. "I'm a friend of Varric's."

"Don't give a toss who you're friends with. Veins crawling like worms under my skin mean you're one of the bad ones." Sera showed no sign of relaxing her diligence.

"People have been calling me one of the bad ones since I was born," Bethany observed, and her words were accompanied by a spark which hopped between her fingertips. "What's in my blood does not make me any worse than anyone else...and it doesn't make you any worse than you were before, either."

The arrow drew further back in its bow, whether from the woman's words or her minor display of power. "Friggin' brilliant," Sera scoffed. "A Warden and a _mage_. It's like you all hide in the shadows and wait to jump out at me when I ain't expectin' nothing. I was doing fine before you sidled up to my door."

"Is that true, Sera?" Bethany did not flinch away, but she did lower her hand, trusting her experience and reflexes, and showing a small measure of faith in the bow-wielding elf. "Varric says you've had a poor time of it. He thinks I can help."

"Yeah? What'd you know about anything? Look like you were spoilt for choice and joined up on your own two feet, where I'm sittin'."

Bethany did not react to the scorn in the other woman's voice, nor did she scoff at the elf's flickering eye, which hopped from gilded bangle to jeweled ring, ornaments she had won by raid and rapine, a fact of which she was not entirely proud. "Years ago, I went into a hole in the ground, with hardly a copper left to my name and nothing but my brother's hope to keep me going," she admitted, her words weighted by the weight of time. "A part of me never left that hole, and what came out was changed. I didn't want to take the cup, and sometimes I still wonder if I shouldn't've just died in the Deep Roads."

Very slowly, as though her joints were as wooden as the bow in her hand, Sera lowered her weapon, though she still kept her arrow knocked. "You're Hawke," she pronounced.

"Bethany," the human woman allowed. "Though you can call me anything you like, so long as it isn't _Champion_." She wrinkled her nose at the title she had long since shirked. "But I know a bit about Corypheus, and a bit more about darkspawn, and so Varric asked me for help. That's why I'm here."

Whether or not Sera knew of Varric's fabrications, she took the stranger's information with a measure of skepticism, though she could not keep some relief from leeching into her expression, regardless. "So you're _not_ here to drag me off to some fortress in Orlais or the Anderfels?"

"No," Bethany replied. I'm here to help my friends...and you, if you want my help." She shrugged and leaned against the door frame. "Either way, I'll be around for awhile, and I'd rather not have to dodge any arrows in the meantime. Some of _my_ friends might not take too well to that, either."

Sera's shoulders hunched and she finally unknocked her arrow, muttering to herself. "I suppose it's good to have friends," she settled, warily. "And I hear you come from people, anyhow, no matter how big you've got since you left Ferelden. So how did you manage to skive off the Wardens after they Joined you up, then?"

Bethany took the elf's question as an invitation, and she stepped into the small second-floor rotunda which Sera had claimed as her quarters. "I didn't escape," she admitted. "Not for a long time, anyhow. For more than two years I served Athadra as a Grey Warden." She did not relay the impression of having enjoyed the experience. "Eventually I killed an Arishok, and Athadra had to let me go." She could not help but smirk. "I don't think you'll have to resort to such extremes, though."

"Does it ever get any better?" Sera asked, holding herself now that she had relinquished her weapon.

"Yes," Bethany assured her. "And no. The dreams do fade, eventually, but…"

"But?"

"But this is a Blight." The woman shook her head sadly. "Athadra told me, once, that it was worse for Wardens who Joined during Blights, even after they were over."

Sera shuddered, shrinking in on herself even more. "Do you hear the music? Because I hear it all the time. I thought it'd be better once Sura went away, and it was, at least the buzzy bits-'til you came along, anyhow-but the music's still there and it's _worse_ and I feel like I'm gonna take a leap off the bailey if it don't friggin' _stop_."

Bethany did not answer for a long moment, having to school her own reaction to the elf's words; a part of her was terrified, but the greater part of her, the part which had survived five trips into the Deep Roads, was relieved. "Yes, I hear the music," she admitted, softly. "It's faint, strongest just before I fall asleep or shortly after I wake up, but it's been going for months, now." She let out a long breath and eased back against the wall. "I thought it was the Calling." But she knew then that it was not-that she had been right in hiding her suspicions from Isabela and the rest of the crew, and she breathed more easily.

"The who did what to the when, now?" Sera opened her shell millimetrically, enough to paint her guest with a skeptical stare.

"The Calling," Bethany repeated, still speaking under her breath, though-aside from herself and Sera-there was not another Grey Warden for more than five hundred leagues in any direction. "Athadra told me about it in confidence, not long after I became a Warden. It's...it's what happens, eventually. To us. We get about thirty years, give or take, and then…"

Sera's timidity disappeared, as did her fear, replaced by an anxious curiosity. "Thirty years for what? What happens after that?"

"The taint gets us, and we turn into ghouls," the human Warden explained. "It's custom for us to go into the Deep Roads before that happens, though." Her lips took a grim turn with her smirk. "One last chance to kill the 'spawn."

"And that...that's what you thought was happening to you? That's what could be happening to _me_?!"

"It's possible," Bethany said, much calmer than her elven counterpart. "But seeing as how neither of us are beginning to moulder in our clothes, I somehow doubt it. It...may be some foul magic of Athadra's, or something she disappeared to fight. It might even have something to do with Corypheus; from Varric's notes, it looks like he can command darkspawn, and maybe even an archdemon."

"Wasn't no _maybe_ about it," Sera replied, with a growl. "Sura said it was one o' them, and I believed her, even before I got sick…" She shivered again and drew up into her own arms, rocking slightly. "And Corblymeus had it heelin' like a dog at supper. I thought we were both gonna die, before Sura brought down the mountain on us…"

"That was a desperate and brave thing to do," Bethany observed. "It is a miracle that either of you survived the avalanche; that Suredat-an knew enough to put you through the Joining speaks very highly of her skill, and of how much she cares for you." She cast her gaze to the floor, and a lock of hair escaped from her bandana to fall across her face. "Wardens do not recruit out of pity."

"Thought you said I wasn't a Warden," Sera pointed out.

"I said no such thing," Bethany corrected her. "I _said_ that I wasn't coming to drag you away, and I won't let anyone else, either. I promise." She looked up, meeting Sera's gaze, making her vow solemnly. "But the blood of the Joining chalice flows in your veins, and one day, a true Calling will wake you from sleep. No matter where you go, you'll have to take care not to attract darkspawn, and not to let any cut or scrape bleed on anyone you love, lest the poison in your body corrupt them to a much earlier grave. You were a Grey Warden the moment that cup touched your lips." She shook her head and tucked that lock of hair behind her ear. "You can speak with me any time you like, and I will keep your secrets, and keep you safe. But your blood is cursed, Sera, and there is nothing I can do to undo that." The elf before her appeared on the verge of lashing out; she appeared on the verge of crying. "And there is one more thing," Bethany prompted her.

Sera's query came out as a strangled mewl. "What?"

"You have to keep the secrets I tell you, too," Bethany insisted. "They are secrets of the Order, and they are not yours to reveal to civilians."

The elf regained a bit of belligerence at the implied threat. "And what if? What if I went and blabbed every little thing you said to me to all the servants and cooks and-and soldiers…" She swallowed hard, refocusing her glare, though her fingers remained weaponless. "What would you do then?"

Bethany shrugged. "Nothing at all," she admitted. "But I could not protect you-or anyone you told-from the retribution that other Wardens might try to effect. And, if there are any left, they _would_ try."

Sera did not answer at first, balancing on the knife's edge between rage and despair, before she deflated with a deep sigh. "Just go," she breathed. "Leave me be, with your earrings and your boots and your scary shite all twisting in my head."

Instead, Bethany stepped forward, extending a gloved hand. "Come on," she said. "It isn't _all_ bad, you know. And after awhile, the good stuff starts to outweigh the bad."

"What's so friggin' _good_ about it, then?" Sera demanded, without taking the human woman's hand.

"Well, you can eat and drink most other people under the table," Bethany advised. "It's gotten me more free food and drink than I'll ever admit to, when I've bet an old sailor I could drain a tank and slop a bowl faster than him." Her lips tipped into a smirk much more playful than she'd worn so far in the elf's chamber. "Surely you must be _starving_ , no? I ate everything I could get my hands on for about a month after I Joined, and I've not really slowed down, since."

Sera hesitated for but a few breaths more, before her belly answered for her, issuing a loud and angry growl. "I...suppose I could eat something," she admitted, before she sniffed. "And I guess I need a wash, too. It's been awhile." Nevertheless, she took Bethany's proffered limb and levered herself to her feet. "Food first though, yeah?"

"Sounds a perfect plan to me," Bethany concurred; she had endured a great many fouler odours, on her ship and off it, so she made no complaint as they emerged into the tavern proper. And the plan, inasmuch as it had formed in her mind, was more-or-less successful; the elf's brooding proved inadequate to last beyond the first few bites of that proper meal, the first true feast she'd allowed herself since Haven's fall, and by the moon's apex turn she was in far better spirits again. The two Wardens engaged in further conversations in the days thence, the details of which I will omit out of respect for my friends' privacy rather than any concern over the risks admonished within these very pages.

Sera's welfare was not Bethany's only, or even her chief, concern in the days before I returned with Suredat-an and the rest of our expeditionary force. She held councils with my advisors, especially Varric and Leliana, over how best to respond to Corypheus' threat, and that of the evident Blight he had conjured so soon after one had so ravaged the Fereldan countryside. It was agreed that the best course of action was to find the Grey Wardens and secure their alliance to help us end the evil that was Corypheus once and for all. Leliana and Bethany both agreed that one Grey Warden in particular was worth consulting; they both knew Athadra personally, and worried all the more about her fate after learning of her time spent in Lambert van Reeves' care...but they also vouched for her prowess in battle, and her single-minded determination to defeat the darkspawn, come what may. The fact remained that she was the only living Warden to have ended the Blight, and the years since her achievement had equipped her for nothing if not to end the current one. By the time I arrived, therefore, the options were already prepared, and I had but to assent. Leliana's agents had heard whispers of Wardens in the small village of Crestwood, on the far side of Lake Calenhad, men who sought a supposed fugitive.

The family name _Stroud_ was ambiguous, equally rare in Orlais and the Anderfels and unknown everywhere else, but Bethany was familiar with it, for it was shared by the Warden who had inducted her in the first place. That Orlesian Wardens were in Ferelden seeking a man named Stroud was too much to be dismissed as coincidence. For her part, Suredat-an was in favour of any plan that brought her one step closer to locating Athadra, though she had not forgotten her vow to fulfill her duties as the Herald of Andraste.

And so it was that, hardly two days after we returned to Skyhold, we departed it once more. Dorian, Vivienne, and Solas remained behind, but the Iron Bull ventured out again, and Sera and Varric joined us. Bethany and Isabela came along as a matter of course, and I felt confident in my closer allies and in the Champion's presence that I allowed Rhys and Cole to follow, though I did not often engage them in conversation along the way. As weary as I was from the road, it felt good to put my feet to purpose; I make no claim to premonition, or even to divine guidance, but I had faith that, in Crestwood, we would find the first of what would be many answers to questions that had plagued the world since the opening of the Breach.


	14. Chapter 14

The road to Crestwood was long, but the leagues were lightened by Bethany, who treated Suredat-an as an old friend and Sera as a new one, and so helped to bridge the rift which circumstance had carved between them. Isabela frequently kept herself between Varric and I, though whether it was to shield him from my scrutiny or simply to goad me to new heights of frustration, I am still not certain. In either case, she took to competing with the dwarf for who could tell the greatest lies; I could ascertain the truth of very little she said in my presence, and I do not trust the dwarf to give me an honest accounting of the banter we shared on that journey, so I cannot in good conscience record what passed for conversation on the road. The village itself was both better and worse than we hoped, for it proved to contain the rogue Warden who made our quarry, and much more trouble which must need subsume our attention, besides. A great rift had opened beneath Lake Calenhad, near the portion of the village which had been flooded during the Blight, and the demons spawned there caused a great deal of suffering to the hilltop hamlet that remained.

The details of our liberation of the village are myriad, but easily summed, and of little consequence to the broader course of events. In short, the long-serving mayor of Crestwood had admitted many refugees into his people's care during the Blight, more than a few of whom had been infected by the darkspawn corruption. By the time he became aware of the direness of the situation, many of his own townsfolk had fallen ill to Blight sickness, and the problem only grew worse despite his efforts to sequester the sick from the hearty. With no relief imminent from a country at war with itself, he made the unenviable decision to sacrifice the part in order to save the whole, and he flooded the old village, drowning all of the refugees and many of his own people. The atrocity was easily blamed upon the darkspawn, but the man's culpability was revealed by our efforts against the demons beneath the village, and once we had secured the area and learnt the truth, he fled rather than stand to account for his actions.

The Warden Stroud had news of much graver concern than the fate of one village, however much its people might have suffered; we came upon him in a cave, convalescing from wounds sustained fending off his brothers and sisters in arms. "They have gone mad," he told us, once Bethany's association had bought us his trust. "Driven beyond the edge of reason by fear of the Calling, which we all began to hear nearly a year ago."

I was unfamiliar with the term, but I took my cue from the reactions of the companions who had accompanied me into the cave. Sera, Varric, and Bethany all showed some degree of surprise and trepidation, while the Herald's customary stoicism was hardly indicative that she shared my ignorance. "What is the Calling?"

To my surprise, it was Sera who answered, despite the recency and unorthodoxy of her induction into the Grey Wardens. "It's what happens to everybody who swallows darkspawn blood, but it happens to Wardens slower than it happens to everyone else," she said. "Or it's _supposed_ to, anyhow. Ser Champs-a-lot told me I'd get thirty friggin' years. Just shows you a fancy title don't make you right, I guess." She seemed remarkably calm, as though she had already resigned herself to the fate she implied.

"It is a false Calling," Stroud insisted, from his cot. "For the three of you, at any rate." The greying bristles of his moustache curled with the force of his grimace as he regarded Bethany, Suredat-an, and Sera.

Bethany knelt beside him. "You don't mean…"

"It will not be long, now, even if I could recover from these injuries," Stroud informed us. "Perhaps it was the clarity of that truth which allowed me to see past the lie that too many of my fellows have been caught in."

"Could Corypheus be behind this?" I wondered, unable to sort out the implications, either way.

"I do not know enough of Corypheus to judge," he admitted, "but it would not surprise me. And regardless of the cause, its effect was convincing enough for Clarel to succumb to the draw of blood magic and demonology to finally end the Blights, once and for all." He would have spoken more, but a wet cough took him, and black blood speckled his chin when it ceased.

I realised then that he was dying, whether from his wounds or the poison in his veins, and sympathy for his plight and his acquaintance with Bethany warred in my mind with the practical need for more information; as much as I might have wished to give him privacy, or perhaps the mercy of a quick end, I could not abandon my duty as Inquisitor. "What sort of measures is Clarel taking? What does she hope to achieve?"

"A final victory over the 'spawn," Stroud repeated. "Which she will try by...raising an army of demons and binding them with blood magic. Col...collaborating with Tevinter mages." Another cough took him, and Bethany lay a hand upon his shoulder; I sensed a subtle transfer of power, and surmised the application of a mild rejuvenation spell from the temporary relief which bled over Stroud's features. It was not healing, for it caused neither mage nor patient agony, but it would help for the present. "Thank you," he allowed. "Might I have some water?"

"Of course," Bethany agreed, and she gave him a mouthful from her own waterskin before she gave me a significant look. "If these Tevinters are part of the Venatori, then Corypheus is doubtless involved."

"He is ancient and powerful," Stroud agreed, having caught his breath. "Perhaps his mastery of the taint was the reason the Wardens chose to imprison rather than eradicate him."

"Or perhaps they tried to kill him, and were just as successful as Athadra and I were," Bethany mused. "Either way, we've got to stop the Wardens before they destroy themselves."

"Not to mention the rest of Thedas," I observed. "You say this Clarel is raising a demonic army with Tevinter aid. Can you tell us where they gather? What force they have already achieved?"

"They gather at Adamant, a fortress on the western edge of Orlais, overlooking the Abyssal Reach." Despite Bethany's magical attention, or perhaps because of it, the man looked as though each word cost him more than the last. "It has been too long since I fled them to have more than a notion of their numbers, but their progress appeared slow. There may...there may be yet time to reach them, and make them see reason."

"There might also be enough time for us to waltz into a trap," Varric mused, from nearer the mouth of the cave. "Whatever we do, we'd best be careful."

Stroud was too ill to consider the dwarf's scepticism. "Promise me, Hawke," he implored. "Tell me you will go, that you will try and do what I could not. I know they were never truly your brothers..."

"They were," Bethany insisted, solemnly. "And I will see them freed, in this world, or beyond it."

Stroud nodded, and he drew himself up to a sitting position, though it took him great effort. "There is another thing I would have of you, Hawke," he said, his words heavy with dark innuendo. "If you are willing to indulge an old man a parting kindness."

Varric and Sera both looked to object to his meaning, or at least his choice to employ Bethany to the purpose. "I will do it," I said, stepping forward to stand beside the woman who had proven far kinder and even more noble than Varric's tale had conveyed. "If you are certain you truly desire an end, I can deliver the final blow."

"No," Bethany demurred, laying a hand upon my shoulder and offering me a pained smile. "Thank you, Inquisitor, but this is between my sponsor and I. I cannot allow you to interfere." Through her politesse I sensed a foundation of steel which had doubtless formed the basis of her legend, and I was not nearly foolish enough to press her.

"Very well," I allowed, with a respectful nod to the dying Warden, and I stepped back to give them some measure of privacy.

"Is it really over, Moustache?" Varric wondered, as tactful as ever.

"It is," Stroud confirmed. "I lack the strength to make the Deeps, and the song grows more beautiful by the hour. It is time." His eyes shifted back to Bethany, and he nodded. "If you happen to see Monroi in your travels, Hawke, give him my regards."

"I shall," Bethany promised, and she knelt down before the man who had given her the darkspawn cup, the man who had rescued her from certain death beneath Kirkwall, the man who had let her live on to become that city's Champion. Those days were far removed, but there was an undeniable tenderness in their last moments that bespoke a lasting respect. I did not catch her drawing the dagger that she used to end his life, but Bethany's mercy was swift, expertly applied, and Stroud fell from the world before his corpse had settled back onto his cot. Bethany paused for but a moment, possibly offering a prayer, before she stood and sheathed her weapon. "We should burn him," she suggested, a move I initially mistook for piety; the woman had attended her share of pyres, including that of her own mother, at which she had delivered a fine eulogy, according to Varric's filtered reportage. But she soon revealed her motives to be thoroughly practical, at least in this instance. "The blood might spread its corruption, otherwise."

The Herald nodded, looking to Varric and I. "Leave," she told us.

"I think the Herald means we might not wanna stick around to watch," Varric translated, unnecessarily. "And I'm inclined to agree with her."

"Very well," I allowed, not overly interested in witnessing an immolation; in my time, I had attended my own share of pyres. The dwarf accompanied me out of the cave and into the fresher air of the hills, all the way back to the camp we had established at the bottom of the trail, where the bulk of our expedition stood guard. The Grey Wardens of our company followed a scant hour later, and we developed a plan to address the information that Stroud had bestowed before his demise.

Isabela's ship still lay at anchor in West Hill, but it would not be welcome in Val Royeaux without more coin than either she or the Inquisition had to spare to grease the dockworkers' palms and keep the harbour authorities at bay; the pirate had been too long away from her crew and the sea besides, and she expressed no interest in following her lover into the Orlesian desert. It was decided, then, that she would resume her captaincy while Bethany accompanied us back to Skyhold, and beyond into Orlais. I had a raven sent to bring my advisors up to date on our circumstance, with instructions for Cullen to prepare the men for a march, and to Josephine for securing our passage in force across southern Orlais. The rogue's departure was swift, occurring before first light the next morning, though not a single member of our camp was left undisturbed at some point during the night by the force of the Champion's enthusiastic farewell. Sera, Varric, and the Iron Bull made lurid mockery of the passion they had only heard, but Bethany proved impervious to their japes, and we made good time back to the fortress that was becoming home for the better part of our number.

Upon our return to Skyhold, I was taken aback by just how many more people had come to settle in the weeks since my last all-too-brief visit; nearly two thousand souls slept beneath the keep's watch, either within its walls or in the valley below, and from these Cullen had drawn upwards of three hundred fighters to train as militia and soldiers. It did not yet equal the force of nations, but it was a more permanent beginning than Haven could ever have hoped to be. About a hundred of these were sufficiently skilled to join the thirty or so surviving veterans of Haven, and with these men and women we made our march across Dales. Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine marched with us, as did Solas, Dorian, and Fiona, while Rhys and Cole remained with Vivienne and the Bull, who kept his Chargers behind to form a guard force and to continue the recruits' training.

It required all of Josephine's cunning, Cullen's élan, and Leliana's subterfuge to secure our way unmolested by the baronets and fiefdoms of the Dales; the locals had suffered greatly from the Orlesian civil war and were wary of anyone in armour, no matter the colours, but by simple luck or Andraste's grace we arrived in the Western Approach with only minimal losses to disease and desertion, and none to hostile action. Along the way, our numbers were bolstered by auxiliaries from ambitious nobles, who had been convinced of the Inquisition's purpose-or at least its ascension-enough to contribute men to the cause of subduing the Wardens, so that we approached the Abyssal Reach with nearly three hundred afoot and thirty horse-mounted knights.

If I had known who had preceded us to Adamant, I would have dismissed our levies before they had gathered, for not a single man or woman of the ranks would wet their blades in the taking of the fortress. Indeed, when we claimed a high dune to make our forward camp, we found Adamant already besieged by an army more than twice our number. Leliana dispatched three of her finest scouts to investigate under the cover of night, but the first light of dawn did not herald their return; instead our guards raised the alarm as a single rider approached from the siege camp, a tall man of middle years, sporting distinctive silver-and-blue armour which bespoke his membership in the Grey Wardens. Cullen called the members of our vanguard to attention, but the outrider slowed his horse and lifted his hands in a consoling gesture.

" _Parlez votre intention_ ," I demanded of him in Orlesian, when he came within hearing distance. The absence of our scouts had put us on edge, and the presence of Grey Wardens without Adamant's walls had me questioning the truth of Stroud's dying revelations.

To my surprise, the Warden's reply came in Andish. " _Ich könnte Ihnen die gleichen auffordern, meine Dame._ " Though his words were hostile, his tone was far from it, and he offered a genial smile from atop his mount.

Bethany, standing between myself and Suredat-an, gave a gasp of recognition. "Jarvik!"

"Beth, Sura," the rider acknowledged, nodding to each in turn, and he switched to accented Fereldan. "She will be pleased to see you both, as long as you are not here to die."

The Herald took the man's meaning well before I could discern it. "She lives," Suredat-an pronounced, as stoically as ever, though in retrospect there was more than a hint of vindication in her voice.

"Indeed," Jarvik agreed, his easy smile faltering. "The same cannot be said of Commander Clarel for many more sunrises, if she does not come to terms."

"Terms?" I wondered, looking past the messenger to the distant castle and its enveloping army.

"The Wardens have divided," Cullen broached, from my left. "It's a relief to know that some of them have the sense to avoid demons and blood magic, at least."

The man, Jarvik, gave Cullen a raised eyebrow, and then he threw his head back and bellowed the laugh of a drunkard midway through his cups. The deep rumble carried in the clear air to all of the companions who'd gathered to challenge him, in case he had come with ill intent. Yet somehow the perversity of his laughter boded more poorly than if he had come bristling with arms. He muttered something in Andish to himself as he settled, and then he made an awkward half-bow. "I apologise, ser. I did not mean to mock. It is only that it has been many years since I have been so surprised, you understand. Please do forgive me."

The man's insincere obsequity threatened to cause more offence than the laughter, and I stepped forward before any of my number could rise to the bait. "We had been given to understand that the Grey Wardens were collaborating with Tevinter mages, summoning demons to form an army. We came in opposition to that event. If you are here to oppose it as well, then we might form common cause."

"That is not for me to decide," Jarvik responded. "I am here only to invite the Inquisitor to an audience with the First Warden, and to warn you that if you try to lift the siege, you will all die." He smiled mischievously as he regarded us. "Though if it _were_ for me to decide, I would settle simply for taking your food and sending you to wander in the desert. No use dulling the steel, you see."

Unskilled in diplomacy as I was, I knew the situation was delicate, and that an ill-advised word from me could see the sand red with blood. But I could not keep myself from answering his glibness with flippancy of my own. "Does the First Warden know what happened to our scouts that haven't reported?"

"She does," Jarvik conceded. "As do I; they are guests, until you come and collect them, Inquisitor." When he saw my distaste, he only laughed again. "Of course you may bring as many guards as you would feel comfortable with...or you may leave. But I know that she would like to talk with you, and she will not kill you unless you give her cause. What do you say?"

I weighed the outcomes for a moment; on the one hand, it was a relief to know that Clarel's madness was not passing unchecked...yet it was disconcerting to have the threat answered only by Wardens, when it might involve Corypheus. It was better to risk a misunderstanding than to cede the field entirely. "I will go," I allowed.

"And me," Suredat-an said. At the time I was touched by her loyalty, but I would soon learn that she had her own reasons for wanting to meet the First Warden.

"Very well," Jarvik allowed. "Follow." He turned his horse around and set off at a slow cant, and Suredat-an moved after him with long strides.

"If we do not return by nightfall," I told Cullen, "do not offer battle here. Nothing is more important than stopping Corypheus, no matter the cost."

"Understood," the soldier replied, grimly.

I took off after the two Wardens, looking back only long enough to see Varric shaking his head at my recklessness, and Bethany laying a restraining hand upon Sera's shoulder. Part of me wanted all three of them by my side, but I could not ask them to follow me into this unknown, and so I forged on, all the way to the edge of the Warden camp. There our guide dismounted and led us afoot through the small village of canvas which his fellows had carved out of the sand. As he did so, I learnt the reason why Jarvik had not been overly cautious in his boasting about extinguishing us, should his superiors deem it necessary; the men and women of the Wardens were fearsome warriors of worldwide acclaim, but to be in the presence of so many was to understand what true war could be. None in the camp were idle, and those not moving to some industry were training at arms, quite oblivious to the strangers being guided through their tents. Among the Inquisition's ranks Suredat-an struck a remarkable figure, both for her stature and her brutality in combat; among her brothers and sisters, the Herald's demeanour and prowess appeared quite reasonable, even commonplace. These were masters of the craft of battle, artists with blade and bow and axe. I sensed tremendous magical energy flowing through all corners of the camp, as well, though oddly there were no staves in sight-all wore armour of mail or patterned steel, and all had bladed weapons, even the archers.

They outnumbered our nascent army by more than two to one, yet the balance of forces might have been reversed, and still I would not have doubted the outcome of a contest of arms between the Wardens and the Inquisition. My own former order had been fanatical in its exercise, but even they would not have been able to stand against this force without overwhelming odds to favour them. As Jarvik led us to a nondescript pavilion in the middle of the camp, I prayed that it would not come to that.

Jarvik paused by the tent's entrance, gesturing us through with a tilt of his head. "Good luck, Inquisitor," he offered, with another one of his cheeky smiles.

Suredat-an preceded me, ducking beneath the top edge of the pavilion, and I followed, blinking at the relative darkness for a moment before my eyes adjusted, just in time to see the Herald of Andraste fall to her knees. " _Basalit-an_ ," she rumbled, dipping her head toward the relatively slight figure who stood leaning over a table, back turned to us. "I am sorry."

She showed such reverence that I should have known the object of it even before the figure turned, but I remained in ignorance for a scandalous number of heartbeats. The First Warden was apparently an elf of ragged features, her mop of short black hair streaked with grey wires and parted by a band of cloth which occluded her forehead and covered her left eye. The woman's right eye was as red as blood, framed by an old scar upon her caramel cheek, and her right ear was a burnt ruin, hardly distinguishable from her onyx locks. She wore a simple tunic and trousers beneath an open-fronted robe which, on inspection, proved to be a Chantry garment viciously sundered down the middle; such casual blasphemy would have driven me to an instant dislike, had my mind not chosen that very moment to realise the truth: the woman who stood before me was none other than Athadra, much as Varric had described her, save for her lack of arms and armour, her shorter hair, and a new catalogue of scars she had accrued since leaving Kirkwall. The headband hid the most grotesque of these, namely her empty eye socket and the sunburst brand burnt into the centre of her forehead, the same symbol she had torn apart to make her coat. "No," she told Suredat-an, her voice as deep and rough as a well run dry. "It weren't your fault I were taken, and the man what took me is dead, now." She stood unassumingly, somehow diminished out of the armour that she had worn so proudly before her kidnapping, though if even half of the stories about her were true, Athadra unarmed was still the most dangerous person in this camp...perhaps the most dangerous person in the world, withal. I admit to feeling a sense of dread when she fixed her one-eyed stare upon me. "They tell me you brought an army, Seeker," she mused. "Why?"

"Because the Inquisition believes Corypheus has been influencing the Grey Wardens, as he has taken control of the darkspawn," I said. "Because we need Wardens as allies if we are to succeed in thwarting his plans, and because we did not believe anybody else was going to oppose him."

"Corypheus," the Warden hissed slowly, with a look of contemplation. "That would explain a few things, even if it ain't the best news I've had in my life."

"I understand you have fought him before."

"I _killed_ him," Athadra corrected me, slightly affronted. "If he's back, we'll just have to kill him again, good and proper. But first things first is Clarel; I've given her time enough, but she won't open her gates." She turned her back to me, then, as though I presented no further threat than a midsummer breeze. Then again, in the presence of Suredat-an, I am uncertain that I did. "You'll have three choices, Seeker. One, you take Leliana's little birds and go back home; two, we help each other find and kill Corypheus; three, I kill you and everybody you brought to town before I breach the gate. I'd appreciate it if you decided before midday."

I was taken aback by the callous indifference the Warden showed in her enumeration, presented without a shred of the boastful tone Jarvik had brought to the same pronouncement, and I did not doubt her earnestness. "I believe we can come to an agreement and work together," I said, perhaps too quickly.

"Good," Athadra replied, nodding millimetrically. "Collect your spies and prepare your best; we're taking the fortress tonight."


	15. Chapter 15

As good as her word, the First Warden released the captured scouts back into Inquisition hands, with the caveat that any other agents caught sneaking around the camp would be conscripted into the Wardens without recourse. She was also serious about me gathering my best fighters, and only those; the three Grey Wardens of my company along with Varric, Dorian, Vivienne, Solas, and myself were invited to participate in the assault as an act of good faith, but none of our regular troops or the auxiliaries were permitted to lend their arms to the cause. This was as much for their benefit as it was a stain on their pride, however, for fighting Grey Wardens _en masse_ carried more than the usual risks of everyday combat, given the death sentence carried within their blood. If the extraordinary skill on display by Athadra's troops was any indication, a part of me was glad that the body of my host was set to remain idle, in any case.

Solas approached the First Warden quite brazenly in the open field before Adamant's main gate, once we had joined with her troops, and he introduced himself in a melodious stream of elvish, much as he had done to Sera shortly after their first meeting. " _Ar'enas vir math'alin din sul'ev'in erg'ana'ta vhenan dorf se lavan'nan._ "

Unlike the brash city elf, however, Athadra answered him in kind. " _Ne an'eth'ara vo su'rin'an gh'is'ana'than sed fen'dron'ac abelas vir'lassan_."

The pair engaged in a spirited exchange, which I shall not here attempt to further transcribe, for I do not have access to a reliable source for the words they shared. By the end of their dialogue, however, Solas appeared discomfited, perhaps embarrassed that his gambit to establish some measure of superiority with respect to his heritage had failed, and he was all too happy to fade into the mass of companions which I had brought.

Athadra herself seemed slightly out of place amidst so many heavily-armoured warriors, dressed only in cloth and leather, but the deference shown to her by the more ordinarily-clad warriors was unmistakable. She did not have to suffer adulation from her subordinates as Suredat-an and I occasionally did from the followers of the Inquisition, but she had her people's respect, and I was not long in discovering its source. She issued commands to her favoured lieutenants, who readied scaling ladders-the only siege equipment that Athadra had deigned to prepare-and gathered incursion parties to challenge the walls. The First Warden herself stepped into the no-man's-land before the main gateway, within range of the fortress's archers, daring them to strike. Whether from respect, fear, or simple preoccupation, no arrows issued forth as she began to speak.

" _La plupart d'entre vous ne me connaissez pas_ ," she said, her voice booming with an unnatural amplification, so that it washed over the walls and touched the ears of everyone within them. Her words were coloured with the flawless accent only a Circle education might provide, and though she continued to speak in Orlesian, I shall translate her speech into the King's Tongue for convenience. "Yet you all know my reputation; I have killed a god, and yet I live, and lead. I know that you're scared...scared of the Calling, and scared of me.

"I'm coming through the doors, and if you fight me, you will die tonight. But if you don't fight, if you choose me over Clarel, I promise you your death will happen later, that it will _mean_ something. Something better than the amelioration of your fear. Another Blight is coming, and I need you. Thedas needs you; the darkspawn aren't in the ground anymore, and neither are the archdemons. They're _here_ , in Orlais and Ferelden, and we need to kill them.

"Clarel, you aren't the Commander of the Grey in Orlais any longer, as of this moment. I'm coming in to relieve you of that burden. Now." And she began walking forward calmly, with a slight limp to show for the myriad punishment to which she had been subjected to over the years since joining the Wardens.

An arrow finally came toward the advancing elf, but she diverted it lazily with a casual brush of mana. It was the oddest beginning to an assault that I had ever witnessed, and I found myself holding my breath when Athadra drew beneath the outer portcullis, beneath which was likely the first of a series of murder holes. She stood waiting, her head tilted slightly up, and she might have spoken to the men behind the gates, but if so it was in her normal voice, and we behind her could not hear. Slowly she spread her arms wide, and then the oil finally came, pouring down from the apex of the arch, black and bubbling and hot enough to strip flesh from bone.

It did not touch her, however, instead bowing and curving around her, collecting in mid air as though in a great, invisible cistern. Then, with a twitch of her arms and another surge of magic, Athadra sent the great mass of roiling, viscous fluid back up into the hole from which it had been poured, to the attendant screams of those foolish enough to have released it. Athadra nodded, slightly, and she did not remain sedate for much longer; in another heartbeat, the First Warden summoned ethereal blades of pure force which sheathed both of her arms beneath the elbow, and she began striking at the tempered wood and iron of the gate. I stood arrested for a moment at the skill on display, even as the rest of the Wardens took it as a signal to advance; I had heard of the Knights Enchanter before, mages who could apply their energies to fight hand-to-hand, and knew that Vivienne counted herself quite proficient at the art of wielding a magical blade. Yet even Vivienne required an artifact to focus her will into being, and at her best she could only hope to draw even with a competent Seeker in single combat. Athadra needed neither stave nor hilt to summon her blades into being, and she moved with the lethal economy of one long accustomed to wielding heavy weapons against multiple foes. There was no artistry to her attack, no finesse, save what grace was needed to push one strike into the next without pause, but I had no doubt that even a decent squad of Seekers at the height of their power would find themselves overmatched by this woman. In fact, I recalled that she had indeed faced insurmountable odds in Kirkwall in an ill-considered trap that Knight-Commander Meredith had lain for her, which had seen a dozen templars bleed out upon the viscount's steps. When first I'd heard the story from Varric, I had thought it exaggeration, but over the course of the night, I was given ample cause to reconsider that notion.

Varric himself jostled my flank to draw me from my reverie, and I noted that dozens surged around us, eager to widen the breach their leader was carving into the doorway. "We gonna miss out on the fun, Seeker?" He mused, smirking and cocking his crossbow. "I promise it's just getting started."

"Of that I have no doubt," I replied, curtly, though in truth I was touched by his thoughtfulness. "Let us be off," I cried to my comrades, who had held back at my hesitation; I was more relieved than I cared to admit that both Suredat-an and Bethany had loitered with the rest of my companions, and when we moved, it was as one body in the midst of the throng of Grey Wardens which surged into the main hall.

More than seven hundred foreign Wardens had gathered here to nearly double the Orlesians within the stronghold's walls, and together they numbered more than a thousand strong-nearly every single Grey Warden in Thedas-save Anders, of course, that apostate who had murdered the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall, and perhaps a few other rogues scattered across the continent. A thousand warriors, not counting the small army the Inquisition had brought, all of whom stood idle while the Wardens sorted themselves out with fire and steel. My companions and I lent our aid, but given the overwhelming numbers and superior discipline of the attackers, it was inevitable in any case that we would overcome the Orlesians' resistance, such as it was.

Athadra's plea for submission had in fact been taken to heart by the majority of the rebel Wardens. There were perhaps a fifty holdouts, mostly mages, who commanded at least that many demons bound by blood; a frightful force for any army, but small enough to be contained and defeated in detail. The majority of the invading Wardens remained in reserve, as their superior numbers were all but useless in the stronghold's narrow corridors and tight spaces. Before the moon was high, Athadra had led her vanguard into the central courtyard of the ancient fortress, where the last of the holdouts prepared to make their stand. A small knot of Venatori agents stood with Clarel and her lieutenants on a platform, and they seemed to be arguing with one another as we approached. "We have lost, Livius," Clarel pronounced, in Orlesian. "There is no use throwing away your own life when mine is forfeit."

I moved until I stood abreast of Athadra, but she held out a bloodied hand to halt my advance, her attention focused on the exchange. "You don't get it, do you? _Lexriae kassoorae!_ " He gestured to the crowding warriors surrounding the platform. "They have won _nothing_. The Blight will cover the whole of Thedas, and in its wake, the Master will bring the Imperium to greatness once again."

Clarel appeared not to understand the meaning of the man's words, though I did, and so did Athadra. "He's talking about Corypheus," she explained. "That's who he's serving, who he's got you serving, too."

"Nobody asked you, bitch," the Tevinter snarled, flinging a bolt of lightning in her direction. The First Warden had not completed her assault unscathed, bleeding from nearly a dozen cuts, but she did not bother even to dodge the attack; instead, she batted it away as though it were an irksome bother.

" _Tu melius, si tu velles vivere tota nocte_ ," she told him, in Ancient Tevene. And then she turned to Clarel, continuing in Orlesian. "The same cannot be said of you. You are already dead."

Clarel did not seem intimidated by the pronouncement, but her attention was taken by the revelation Athadra had already shared. "But...you killed Corypheus," she said, dubious. For his part, the Tevinter seemed too outraged-or perhaps impressed-to offer a reply.

"The Lord Seeker killed me," Athadra countered. "At least that's what First Warden Johanus made you think."

"You ignorant fools," the Tevinter spat, in Orlesian, when at last he'd found his tongue. "The Master cannot be slain; he is the embodiment of a living god, and he has only just begun to reshape the world. You are all his to command! And he commands that you all die!" He raised his staff high and brought its end down hard onto the stones upon which he stood, his eyes turning to the star-covered sky; a moment later all of the Wardens followed the motion, regardless of their nationality, or even of their official status within the order. Even Sera's gaze was drawn upward, her ears filled with a song I could not hear, though I have since come to appreciate the terrible beauty it evinces to those tuned to it.

The clear view of the stars was occluded by an enormous shadow which quickly resolved into the very same winged horror that had led the charge on Haven. The Tevinter's look of triumph was a macabre reflection of the terror and twisted longing that swept across the faces of the Wardens, but his gloating did not last for long; Clarel regained her wits and attacked him, taking her revenge for the folly he had led her down. He rose twice, but he could not offer resistance to the savage assault, and the third magical blow saw him fall for the final time.

The archdemon landed on the top of the keep's only real tower and let out a keening cry before it spat a gob of corrupted flame that sent us scattering. Another projectile was more tightly focused on Athadra, as though the dragon knew she had slain one of its siblings, or perhaps it simply sensed her as the greatest threat out of all of us. Athadra deflected the blow with her magic, probably fuelled by her own blood; I was beyond turning a blind eye and into actively avoiding the thought, ever since Suredat-an had used her lifeblood to help save Mother Giselle, back at the Crossroads. At the same time, a great horde of darkspawn began pouring over the canyonside wall, and the fiends soon engaged the body of the Wardens in that inner courtyard. Initially the confined space that had limited our assault worked to our advantage, but the more the Wardens were tied up fighting, the less they were able to dodge the archdemon's tainted fire. And the darkspawn kept coming, as though there were no end to them, as though they would not stop until the fortress was overrun.

"This is impossible," I lamented, after narrowly avoiding another gout of flame. "There are more than we faced at Haven!"

"It is a Blight," Bethany corrected me, after she intercepted a hammerblow aimed for my head. "And it won't end until we slay the dragon." Like Athadra before her abduction, Bethany fought with swords of steel, and she used her magic to enhance her own strength as much as she used it for offensive spells; if I entertained any lingering doubts about her identity as the Champion of Kirkwall, she removed them by showing herself to be as skilled on the battlefield as she was compassionate off of it.

Her pronouncement was canny as well, for Athadra soon rallied a call for volunteers to take the fight to the nesting archdemon itself. Bethany followed her, as did Suredat-an with Sera in her wake, and Clarel surprised all by matching the First Warden's stride, any enmity subsumed by a common goal. Another dozen Grey Wardens cleaved off to join them, leaving the rest of their fellows to continue the struggle for survival in the courtyard. With the threat of raining fire diminished, my companions and I were able to help shore up something like a defensive line against the horde, and the lower battle became one of patience and attrition.

I am Nevarran, and it is true that my family has a long history of hunting and felling dragons; my own brother trained to be a dragon hunter, aspiring to relegate the creatures once more to legend, as the world had thought was the case before the turn of the Age. Yet I felt no temptation to join Athadra or the Herald in their endeavour to ground the archdemon; I had no special expertise in the act, nor any delusions about what glory might be found in it. But I stole glances at the high tower when I could spare them, and I was heartened by what I saw: the Wardens all working together to keep the monster on the back foot, taunting it just enough to keep it angry and tempting it too much to let it fly away. It was easy to see then that Athadra had already slain an archdemon in her time, and she showed every intention of repeating the performance when the dragon became hobbled and wounded beneath the Wardens' combined assault. We down below were barely holding up under the onslaught, unable to fight our way through, when at last the dragon looked ready to give up the ghost.

I was much too far away to see the details, but from what I could piece together after the fact, Clarel redeemed herself in those final moments. She took the killing blow and, in so doing, sacrificed her life to ensure the archdemon would never rise again. A great light erupted from the top of the tower, sending a golden beam skyward to outshine the noonday sun, and a great tremor tore through the mass of darkspawn like a sinister wave. Formerly united in their purpose to overwhelm us and reach the archdemon, the horde became disorganised, and soon took to flight.

The tower itself proved no more resilient to the archdemon's demise, for the side on which the dragon had fallen began to collapse. I watched in horror as the old stone tumbled down, too far away to make out any living thing, praying all the while that none of the shifting shadows denoted a living thing. My prayers were soon answered negatively, however, when one of the shadows began flickering an eerie green, and a great rift tore open near the base of the tower. I felt a great welling of fear, not for any demons that might have wanted to come out, but for the solitary figure which fell into it. "The Herald," I gasped, just as the rift swallowed its creator and blinked out of existence.

The next half hour was taken by the task of clearing the fortress of the leaderless monsters still clogging its halls and passages. There were far too many to slaughter outright, but the Wardens chased them back into the Abyssal Reach from whence they'd come. The First Warden returned near the end of this exercise, with Bethany and Sera and what remained of the corps that had ascended the tower. Sera was once again morose, hardly considering where she placed her feet, and I could hardly blame her; though many of the Wardens considered her nothing more than one of their own, Suredat-an was at the heart of the Inquisition, and her loss would be a blow keenly felt across the whole of Thedas.

Just as I moved to offer a modicum of sympathy to the dejected elf, however, another rift sparked to life a mere handful of feet beyond us, in the centre of the emptying courtyard. The vision I saw within arrested my breath; there was the Herald, ragged and naked and bloody, leaning heavily upon a much smaller human figure. "Please," the old woman begged, with a voice I had never again thought to hear while I still lived, "you must help her, quickly. I am not certain how much longer she can hold open the window."

I was too shocked to move, even with my companion's fate in the balance, for the one who buoyed her took the form of Justinia herself, wizened and wise and infinitely kind, yet strong enough in spirit to support the Herald's great weight. "...Most Holy?" I wondered, unable to comprehend this miracle, as I have been unable to cope with so many in my life.

Whether from lack of faith or simple concern, neither Bethany nor Sera took pause, and they each half-stepped into the Fade to retrieve our friend. Suredat-an was beyond words, her leather and steel shorn in vicious combat that had nearly claimed her life, and my concern for her warred with my desire-my utter _need_ -to speak with Justinia, or her shade, or the spirit that had taken her form. The decision was made for me, however, when the Herald finally lost consciousness; it had been her will which had opened the rift, and without it, the tear in the Veil shuddered and closed before I could even step closer. I moved to help Sera, only to have Athadra's gnarled hand seize upon my upper arm. She shook her head when I gave her a questioning look, and I felt maddened with the injustice of it all; not only had I failed to investigate the phantom in the rift, I could not even help my friends without increasing my own risk of contamination.

Athadra stepped forward in my stead. "Can you heal her, Beth? Get her back on her feet?"

The kneeling woman probed Suredat-an with a diagnostic spell that caused both of them to flinch, and she gave the scarred elf a worried glance. "I shall try," she declared. "But it will have to be here."

Athadra nodded. "I'll see to my people and give you all the room you need. You," she barked, with another pointed glance at me, "close your eyes and shut your mouth. Now." Her red eye gleamed with the authority of someone who'd gone for too long without having anyone question their instructions, and though part of me was apt to balk at her presumption, I was too tired of heart and body to offer any resistance. As soon I complied, I felt a scouring heat wash over my flesh, above my armour and below; it was invasive, but not entirely unpleasant, and when it passed I felt as though I had just stepped from a steaming bath, clean and chilled in the relatively cool air. "I'll not do that again," Athadra warned, "so don't touch anything, and pray your friends don't need to come to me for help."

She left to tend to her business without further ceremony, and Solas came with Varric in tow. "She is quite charming," the elf allowed, "even for one of the People."

"Charmed the head right off that dragon," Varric commented. "Which I am officially impressed by, in case that bum ear of hers works better than it looks." He gave the taller man a skeptical look. "I thought you'd take more of a shine to the Warden. Don't you elven apostates need to stick together?"

"In my experience, solitary apostates are far more apt to evade capture, especially when they employ selfish and irresponsible means," Solas countered. "Though it is true that I can respect anyone who could survive, even thrive, in the face of such suffering as Athadra has seen. Respect need not imply camaraderie, however, nor even approval."

"Fair enough," the dwarf allowed. He nodded over to Suredat-an, still unconscious, being worked over by Bethany with Sera's dogged assistance. "Anything you can do to help Harry over there?"

Solas considered for but a moment before shaking his head. "The Champion appears at least as competent at the art of healing as I," he deflected, "and she has access to methods which wisdom has denied me. It is best we not interfere."

His scornful words about means and methods stuck in my mind, and he could only have been speaking of blood magic, a practice which I suspected he had disparaged only for my benefit; his disdain proved genuine, however, or at least persistent. "You were able to heal her before," I observed, grasping onto an anchoring thought to keep me from re-running the brief vision of Justinia over and over again in my mind. "After the Herald first stepped from the Fade."

"I kept her alive and stable enough to study the mark, in hopes that I could untangle the secrets of sealing the rifts myself, in the event of her death," he reminded me. "That she woke owes more to her own resilience than my efforts, though of course I did what I could for her. Yet healing is a subtle and supple art, one which I have not developed as keenly as I might have done."

"We're right over here, you know," Sera snapped at us. "Running your mouths ain't helping."

And with that the three of us fell into silence, bearing witness to Bethany and Sera's struggle. I found I could not leave, no matter how many duties waited for me outside of the stronghold's walls; I was too mindful of the night where I hung upon the precipice of death, attended by Suredat-an's skilled hands and coaxed back to life through her steadfast guidance. I could not abandon her, though I had little more than prayers to offer. Solas, Vivienne, and Dorian wandered from the courtyard eventually, but I remained, and Varric kept at my side as we watched our friend teeter on the edge of life and death. We did not need to speak to share our concern for the outcome of Bethany's labours; instead, Varric held out a gloved hand, and after a moment's hesitation I took it palm-to-palm in mine, and we watched the Champion of Kirkwall save the life of the Herald of Andraste without saying another word to one another.


	16. Chapter 16

The Herald was healed, brought back to us through great effort and by some cost to the erstwhile Champion of Kirkwall, who bore the torment of the qunari's salvation without complaint. I longed to press Suredat-an for details of her second corporeal journey to the Fade, and yet I also wished to keep my breast free of Sera's arrows, and so I held my tongue as the three women stumbled out of the fortress. Varric and I followed them, among the last to vacate the bloodied ruin, and our fingers were unlaced with no more comment than had been shared for their grasping. The hour was late indeed by the time we reached our camp, and combat had made the climb arduous, but we could not simply fall to our bedrolls; I had evidently been cleansed by Athadra's magic, but Varric still carried traces of the battle, and he could not rest until they were removed.

We commandeered a washbasin for him to bathe with, and I gave him privacy by retreating into the tent I normally shared with Leliana and Josephine, though this early morning saw the pavilion abandoned save for myself. Here in the bosom of my camp, close to the Wardens who'd proven themselves the enemies of Corypheus, I felt safe enough to properly ungird myself; I removed my battered armour and piled it against the tent's canvas wall before claiming my bedroll. Exhaustion weighed me down, nearly dragging me to sleep, but Varric's entrance gave me a moment's pause. I felt a strange anticipation, and perhaps a longing that had been absent too long to be familiar, queer enough to stave off my own rather more routine trip to the Fade by way of dreams. But whatever notion my mind entertained, it was for naught, as the dwarf tucked into his own bedroll on the other side of the tent without any ceremony.

My sleep was not long in coming, bringing with it bittersweet memories and fantasies I had long since given up trying to forget, no matter how much they pained me even before Regalyan's death at the Conclave. I had loved him, as deeply and foolishly as a gallant knight might have loved a princess at the height of the Orlesian Empire. As a man and a mage he had been peerless, a model of reason and restraint, more apt to settle a dispute with clever words than with violence or intimidation. _Whether a sword or a spell_ , he told me once, _the first to brandish it has conceded the argument._ And when he turned his thoughts to poetry and history, to literature and philosophy, he showed me just how beautiful a learned mind could be. In spite of our differences, despite my profession and his more dangerous gifts, I fell in love with him. By some miracle he returned my affection, and he honoured me with the trust of his heart. Our affair was not brief, but by the nature of our circumstance it was perforce intermittent and irregular; I had my duty to the Divine, and he to the Circle. After its dissolution he joined a faction of mages who sought to bridge the rift between the Chantry and their former charges, and it was in all likelihood the greatest honour of his life that he had been there at the summit, so close to achieving that peace. In fact, Regalyan's death had greatly tested my faith, for I could not understand the Maker's actions-the world where I yet breathed and he did not was a much poorer place than the inverse, much less one with both of us working for His ends.

These thoughts are maudlin to me even now, but in truth they were not the focus of my reverie in those scant hours; instead I recalled the look and feel of his lips as we kissed, the subtle weight of his nimble arms as we embraced, the sinfully sweet tingle of his magic upon and within my flesh. I can count on one hand the number of times we seized the opportunity to make love, and it had been some time since those memories had tormented me, but that early morning I relived each of them within the solitude of my mind. I woke breathless, disorientated, with an ache and hunger which was only heightened by the arm cast over my flank and the hip over which I had curled my thigh. In my stupor I mistook my dreams for reality, and vice versa; for a few iridescent moments I truly believed that the past sum of months had been a horrible nightmare, that the Conclave had yet to properly meet, that I had stolen another fantastic day-and night-with Regalyan. Suredat-an had never stepped from the Fade, I had never been named Inquisitor, and, best of all, Divine Justinia still drew breath in this world. It was a thrilling notion, nearly as seductive as Regalyan could be. I shifted in order to fold myself more fully into his embrace, and was rewarded with an iron hardness grinding into my thigh, warm and insistent through the layers of our bedclothes, and nearly irresistible to my unsated desire.

It was only when I felt the deep rumble of Varric's uncontainable groan and the rough stubble of his cheek against my neck that Regalyan's name died in my throat and my eyes flew open, the weight of the world crashing down upon me with the force of the Maker's indifference. Varric roused in the same instant and we both scrambled apart, tangling in our blankets until they tore in our haste to distance ourselves from one another, each cursing, demanding to know what had gotten into the other. My face burned with shame, but my anger was piqued by the disappointing falsity of my dreams, and the understanding that I was alone even amid this army. "The night was cold," I offered, by way of explaining how we had both drawn to the centre of the pavilion as we slept.

"And I need to piss," Varric supplied, bluntly. "Let's just...never mention this again," he offered. "Especially to Frills...or Red." He seemed as eager to ignore the warmth he could not help but to have found between my thighs as I was to wipe his response to that warmth from my recollection.

"Agreed."

He went about his business and so did I, though even as I donned my armour I could not annihilate all traces of the memory of his arm against my waist or his bearded cheek upon my throat. Grunting, I emerged into the midmorning light, poorly rested but too busy to indulge myself further...and too worried at just what sort of _indulgence_ I might resort to, in the illusory privacy of an unshared tent, with nothing but my frustration and my memories to keep me company.

Luckily, at least for my focus, Athadra waited for me at the main command pavilion, flanked by a pair of tattooed dwarven Wardens and accompanied by Suredat-an, Bethany, and Josephine. "Inquisitor," the maimed elf greeted, inclining her head slightly, but not lowering her crimson eye. She wore her sundered chanter's robe once more, but I was not foolish enough to sneer. "Let's talk terms, if you're of a mind."

"Terms?" I wondered, too fatigued to follow. "Of what?"

She tipped her head toward Josephine, who took the gesture as an invitation to speak. "The First Warden proposes an alliance," she explained. "Given that the Inquisition's primary focus is in defeating Corypheus, who employs darkspawn for his purposes-not failing to mention the fact that he appears to be a darkspawn himself-it seems quite reasonable that we should consider this proposal."

I regarded Athadra and her companions somewhat warily. "What end would such an alliance be in service to? It is clear that you are capable of defeating the darkspawn on your own, and the archdemon is slain; what benefit could we bring you?"

"Peace of mind," Bethany offered.

"If you're by my side, I don't have to kill you to keep you from stabbing me in the back," Athadra translated. "It'll take time to figure out how to kill Corypheus, at least so he stays dead, and until we do, it's better if you fight him directly and let me worry about the darkspawn."

"And why is that?"

"Because Corypheus wants to reshape the world, or end it in the attempt. You'll need to rebuild what he tears down." Her scarred cheek dimpled with her smirk. "You _really_ don't want me to do it, but I will, if you force me to."

From what I knew of her, through Varric's recounting and direct experience, I did not doubt her ability to prevail on her own...but I did not believe that the world could survive her efforts to save it. "The Grey Wardens are apolitical, and must be kept that way," I judged. "If we are to agree to work together, that is my first condition."

"Agreed," Athadra said. "You get to talk to all the lordly arseholes you want, and keep them away from me and mine. What you get up to with them is none of my business, unless they're between me and the darkspawn. In return, you don't stick your nose in my business, either; what my people get up to ain't your concern, Inquisitor."

"That is fair," I judged, "as long as none of your people try to aid Corypheus."

"Trust me, if I find anyone working for Corypheus, they'll regret ever taking the Joining in the first place."

"Very well," I said, trying not to imagine just what she meant. "Do you have any other conditions?"

"You'll garrison me and a hundred of my Wardens in Skyhold; the rest will be quartered in the village, or in other fortresses your organisation claims. We'll supply our own weapons, but you're gonna feed us."

"But we do not have the resources," I objected. "You are a thousand, or near enough. The Inquisition lacks the capacity to supply such a force, in addition to our own troops."

"That's her problem," Athadra replied, tipping her head to Josephine once again. "But if you don't want me to conscript everybody who can hold a reaping hook from here to Skyhold, you'll find a way. Corypheus ain't finished, and this Blight ain't over. That means sooner or later he'll come calling with another horde, and your castles will burn to the ground while you all cower behind your walls...unless my people are there to fight them off."

"That is...a fair point," I conceded, reminded of all those we had lost in Haven, and the rest who'd died in agony from Blight sickness. Sera was the only one we could save. Thought of the elf brought another condition to mind. "The Herald and Sera are under my command, and they do not take orders from you."

"I were under the impression that Sera didn't take orders from anybody," the Warden replied.

"That is true," I conceded, with a smirk of my own. "Still, it will be my orders which she ignores. That is not negotiable."

Athadra nodded. "Already agreed," she allowed, with a brief glance to Bethany. "Deal?" She asked, when her attention returned to me.

"I will have to consult with my other advisors," I warned her. "I can see that Josephine approves, but Leliana and Cullen should give their counsel before I confirm my assent."

Upon mention of the two names, something changed in the First Warden's expression, the edge of her unclothed cheek softening in a manner I would not have expected. "Where are they, then? Let's hear what they got to say."

Only having just roused myself from my fitful slumber, I could only look to Josephine, who smiled apologetically. "I beg your pardon, Inquisitor," she said, falling into formality for the benefit of our audience. "Our master at arms is indisposed, this morning. I believe Lady Nightingale is assisting him."

By the look she gave me, I knew the root of the problem lay in Cullen's abstinence from lyrium, but I was not about to admit that in front of Athadra. "Then it will be when they are ready to discuss the matter that I will make a decision," I allowed. "For now, we may proceed under the assumption that we have an accord, at least for the journey through Orlais. Do you require any assistance with transporting the wounded?"

My offer must have struck the First Warden oddly, for she quirked her head in my direction, and any softness evaporated from the broken pool of her face. "No," she said, with every bit of gravel in her voice as Suredat-an's might have contained. "...Thank you, though. I don't mind the offer." I would come to learn that she had already overseen the healing of all of her forces, and those few who could not be brought back to ambulance through the brutal arts had not survived to see the dawn. "I would have words with Cullen and Leliana," she continued. "Once they're able, of course."

"You know them," I recalled.

"They used to know me," she conceded. "I'll keep an eye on the sky for one of Leliana's birds, when they're ready. Is there aught else, Inquisitor?" When I shook my head, she turned to go, and her dwarven companions moved by her side. Her limp was more pronounced, confirming that she had not slept, but she did not lean on either of the women flanking her.

Bethany remained behind in the pavilion, and I found myself grateful for her presence, though she had to have been as exhausted as Athadra. "Will you travel with us back to Skyhold?" I asked her.

"I will, for a time. Now that Athadra is involved, I want to finish what we started in the Vimmarks."

"Corypheus."

She nodded. "It's our fault he escaped; it was my father's blood that sealed him, and when I became a Grey Warden, Corypheus could sense me. Now he wants to bring a Blight over the whole world. We _have_ to stop it."

A familiar voice rose near the entrance to the pavilion. "Thought you pitched your Champion voice over the side of that boat the Rivaini named after you, Sunshine," Varric mused as he stepped into the shade. Whatever awkwardness might have lingered from the morning was hidden by his roguish smirk as he looked upon us. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were getting ready to be a big damned hero again."

"Someone has to show you how it's done, Tethras," she replied, in a tone both mocking and light-hearted in a way few could manage. The Maker knows that I have never found such gracious tones when addressing the dwarf.

"Good to have you back, kid," Varric said, before looking to Josephine and myself. "I just came from Curly's. He's...not doing too well. He didn't try to play the hero around all those darkspawn last night, did he?"

"No," I replied, gathering myself to come to his aid. "I will go see to him."

"No," Suredat-an rumbled, with more gravity than I had. "I will go."

I should not have been, but once more I was surprised. "...Why?"

"Because," she said, "he remembers." And with that mysterious pronouncement she spoke no more before exiting the pavilion, leaving me with Bethany, Josephine, and Varric.

To this hour I do not know what passed between Cullen and the Herald, but before the sun was high, the man was hale enough to discuss Athadra's offer with the rest of us. Of course there could be no practical objection; not only did the Wardens outnumber us, but there was nothing but Athadra's own pragmatism to keep her from simply pressing us all into her service, and the only civil authority for a thousand leagues was weak and weary from a bloody civil war. Therefore, in the shadow of Adamant, we came to an agreement; the Wardens would co-occupy our major fortresses, including Skyhold, Caer Bronach, and Adamant Fortress itself, which my forces were invited to share. From these the Wardens would do whatever they deemed necessary to check the darkspawn, and in return the Inquisition would focus our efforts on combating Corypheus, engaging in politics, and stabilising southern Thedas.

The Inquisition gained an opportunity to do just that, not too long after we set off to re-cross Orlais. A few senior Orlesian Wardens admitted to direct collusion with Corypheus, driven nearly mad with terror over the Calling, which had evidently ceased the very night we had fended off the darkspawn invasion. The upshot of their treason was a vital piece of information, namely that Corypheus had manœuvred Empress Celene and Grand Duke Gaspard into coming to formal terms to end their bloody feud. Of course peace was hardly the fiend's intention, and it was highly likely that he had designed the meeting in order to assassinate the both of them, in order to throw Orlais into chaos. Even though Corypheus was now without an army of demons to capitalise on such a plan, we could not risk its success, for it would only provoke further violence and elicit yet more desperation from the common folk of Orlais.

Luckily, the negotiations for the time and location of the parley had yet to be settled, and the gravity of the event necessitated the most gaudy Orlesian pomp. Thus Josephine and Leliana assured us that we had ample time to ingratiate ourselves with the court and procure an invitation, for regardless of the event's details, it was sure to be a party to remember. I did not look forward to attending, but I did not trust anyone else to go in my stead; the thought of Athadra slicing through the intrigues of the court with blood magic and naked ferocity was amusing to the parts of me that had so tired of the Game during my own time in Val Royeaux, but I was not so vindictive as to let the world burn on that account. For her part, Athadra upheld our bargain by declining any interest in the event, only asking to be kept abreast of its resolution.

We returned to Skyhold with most of the numbers we had gathered, and nearly twice again that many Grey Warden allies, so that overnight the fortress transformed from a skeletal settlement to a thing of blood and flesh, of flint and steel. In our absence, the castellan Gatsi Sturhald had rebuilt much of the dilapidated fortifications, and the quartermaster, Eustace Morris, had increased trade with both Fereldan and Orlesian markets.

That first night back in my sumptuous room atop the main keep was more difficult than I had anticipated. I had a bed suitable for a king, blankets and a fire to warm me, and four solid walls to keep animals and raiders alike at bay. It should have been easy to fall asleep, especially after such an arduous journey, but I found that dreams eluded me. After a few hours of turning in the bed to no avail, I rose with a frustrated sigh, tossing on a robe so that I might keep warm as I wandered the halls. I had no destination in mind at first, excepting the bottom of the stairs, but once I reached the great hall, I found my eyes turning instinctively to the corner where Varric normally held court.

It stood empty, of course, and I could not tell whether the hollow in my breast was born of longing for company or just the old suspicion which my interrogation had inspired in both of us. In either case, things were still ambiguous between us; after the awkward morning of our embrace, we both made sure to not be alone together, which ensured that such a misunderstanding could not be repeated, but also that it could not be resolved. There had been a tenuous rapport developing, one that had now frozen, and was threatening to regress to the level of captor and captive if nothing was done to mend it.

Such thoughts took me from the hall to the garden, where I might have hoped to see Mother Giselle, who always seemed to have a bit of sagacity to spare. Yet again, however, I was thwarted by the lateness of the hour, for not a soul stirred in the garden beyond the single sentry set to guard it. She gave me a curt nod, respectful but hardly inviting, and I made a round of the place without bothering her. Eventually the disquiet of my mind drove me to the small chapel in which a statue of Andraste stood to receive the entreaties of the faithful. I expected it to be just as barren of life as the rest of the castle, but my hopes were once again dashed when I noticed a shadowed figure in front of the ancient stone.

I did not wish to intrude, assuming that any nocturnal pilgrims were in search of solitude, but the figure turned before I might retreat to the garden, and the visage that met my eyes arrested my footsteps. It belonged to Athadra, but unlike the times I had seen her previously, she wore no cloth to obscure the left half of her face and forehead. In the dimness I saw the shadow made by the cavern of her empty eye socket even as her uninjured eye glowed with gathered moonlight. The effect was nearly enough to distract me from the sunburst brand burnt into her forehead, a relic of the Rite of Tranquility, which should have robbed her of her magic and rendered her as docile as an infant lamb.

Much like Fiona, however, the Warden's powers had been restored; if the elder woman's assertions were true, Athadra's liberation had preceded her own, and had likely been its cause. In any case, the elf in front of me could hardly be termed docile any longer, though she oddly seemed at peace in this place. "Come in," she told me, "if you're coming."

I stepped inside and came up beside her, turning my attention to Andraste's image, both in order to find peace of my own, and to keep from staring at my companion. "Did you ever speak to Cullen and Leliana?" I wondered, after a few moments' silence.

"Aye," Athadra affirmed. "It's...good to see them doing alright. They both been through a lot."

"You knew them well, before you became Warden-Commander?"

"I knew them well enough," the Warden replied. "Leliana were a pain in my arse during the Blight, but afterwards, she helped take care of Alistair while I couldn't. That gives her a lot of room to be a pain in the arse."

It was by no means common knowledge that Leliana was the lover of the King of Ferelden, but I counted myself among that privileged number. "I am sorry that her duties here keep them apart," I offered. "But you likely understand more than most how destiny might break one's heart, if Varric is correct about your own affair with the Witch of the Wilds."

She did not answer me for a time, long enough that I feared I might have overstepped, but eventually the silence relented. "If Beth weren't so fond of the dwarf, I might have conscripted him by now, or cut his tongue out and dipped it in silver." I stiffened, then, and my own hesitation brought a sander's belt of laughter from the Warden. "I see she ain't the only one he's charmed," she observed.

I cut a glance to her face, and anyone else would have at least flinched from the well-practiced ferocity of my expression, but Athadra merely smirked. "And what is that supposed to mean?" I demanded, praying that the light was too low for even her elven eye to see the sudden flush of my cheek.

"It means you don't have to keep your bed cold, just 'cause Leliana does," she told me. "Beth's seen the way you two are around each other; if you were twenty years younger, you'd probably be rutting already."

I was taken aback by her forthrightness, as well as the content of her words. "That is not true," I insisted, after swallowing a disgusted sigh. "We barely tolerate one another. The entire idea is ridiculous."

Athadra shrugged. "I got an excuse for not sleeping. What's yours?"

"I refuse to discuss this any further," I said, crossing my arms, trying to think of anything else. "And just what keeps you from sleep, Warden? And why have you taken refuge in this room, of all places?"

"The two are related, _Seeker_ ," she replied, feeding a hiss into the appellation that was far more sinister than even Varric managed at his most aggrieved. "When Lambert van Reeves took me eye and nailed me to a wall, he gave me no choice but to kill him. It took months, but with a friend's help, I made it to the Fade, and struck a deal with a spirit. After that, I've not slept too well."

If I had been anxious at the previous line of conversation, the current turn made me positively afraid, though my years of facing down terror let me conceal the worst signs. "You truly are an abomination, then." I wished I had thought to bring my sword, or at least my shield, but both hung uselessly in my chambers.

In reply, Athadra blinked her extant eye, and as it opened, its hollow twin filled with a violet orb. Magic hummed just beneath the surface of her skin, bringing more rays of violet through the cracks in her scars, tingling my attuned senses uncomfortably. "I were a girl," she spat, her voice echoing in two tones, her salt-and-pepper hair lifting on a wind only she could feel. "A girl who didn't want to fight, who didn't want to hurt anybody." Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the show of power ended; Athadra's hair fell about her face, her left socket emptied of its ethereal eye, and the seams of her rent flesh stopped their glowing. My own skin stopped its crawling, and I let out the breath I hadn't been aware of holding. "But people like you stole me away from my home when I were a child; you put me in a cage where you treated me like a fancy pet. You only let me out when monsters came that scared you even more than I did, and once those monsters were gone and I didn't go back to the cage, you hunted me down and made me Tranquil."

I had no reply to this, and so I only watched warily as she turned to regard the statue once more. "Those men what took me from Lothering, who watched me and kept their swords ready to skewer me at the first sign of trouble, who hunted me down and died to bring me to heel again...they all had Andraste on their tongues. The Circle in Ferelden had statues like this one on every floor, except bigger, older. I used to stand in front of one in my dorm, trying to figure out if Andraste could really see me, if she ever lived at all. What she'd think of men using blood magic to hunt and kill people like me. Whether it were worse for magic to rule us, or for _fear_ of magic to rule us."

I had wrestled with many of the same points in my life, and so I could offer no argument; I could also see that, regardless of the broader questions of history and politics, the woman by my side had suffered greatly in her own life, and that the Chantry that I had devoted mine to supporting was no small cause of that suffering. "And what brings you to contemplate Andraste while sleep eludes you now, after all this time?" I broached, as neutrally as I could.

"I wonder how many more of her people I'll have to kill before they'll stop stealing children in her name." She sounded broken, mournful, tired, and despite-or perhaps because of-all I had come to know of her, I felt my chest constrict with sympathy.

"The Chantry will be reformed," I told her, solemnly. "The next Divine will be pivotal, able to redirect and reform the faith more than any before. I promise you, Athadra, whoever gets that honour will remake the Circles into open places of learning and freedom, where mages can go to perfect their craft to be of service to humanity. We will not repeat the mistakes of the past." I spoke with a conviction I had no right to feel, but I had to have faith, and I did not want to contemplate the consequences of failing in that endeavour.

"I don't pray," Athadra said. "But if I did, I'd pray you were right."

I did pray, and I still do, for the same.


	17. Chapter 17

_When you turn the page, you notice the quality of the vellum change; it's just as old as the rest, but of slightly-poorer stock and a hue that tends more yellow than brown. The penmanship is markedly different, as well-not the blunt, disjointed, professional printing of the Inquisitor's stiff hand. The letters on this clutch of pages (which you surmise were inserted after the book's initial compilation) is freer, the words looping and flowing like a stream to the sea, no two letters written identically._

 _At first it puts you in mind of the note scrawled along the bottom of the book's introduction, almost certainly written by Varric Tethras, but upon closer inspection you conclude that the hand which authored the next installment of this accounting must not have belonged to either of these two figures. The mystery doesn't last long, as the first few lines provide sufficient clues for you to draw a reasonable inference, but their content is worth examining further, so you refrain from skipping to the end of the insert and simply picking up the Inquisitor's narrative where it left off._

oOoOo

Don't let the old maidenshield give you the wrong impression of what she and her merry band of scoundrels were about; while she and my lingible, lively, libidinously luscious lady love were off getting sunburnt and far too close to far too many darkspawn for my comfort, Cassandra Pentaghast had agents all over Orlais and Ferelden working to spread her name-and her influence-as far and wide as it could go. _Keeping the peace_ , they called it, even when the buggers levied dock fees and road tolls. The Armada kept the peace, too, and it also took its pound of silver for the trouble.

The Inquisition wasn't really any different, sorry to say. It was made up of flesh-and-blood women-and a few men, for zest-whose hearts beat to the same drum as anyone who's ever got more swords than they know what to do with. That fancy castle in the mountains wasn't cheap to stock, and neither was the glad handing that drew all the even fancier hatted barnacles to the cause. Sure, they were trying to make the world better, but then again, so was I-at least in my way-and between Cassandra and me, only one of us has a statue. Well, a statue both placed and fit for public consumption, at any rate.

Where was I? Oh, right, I was trying to clue you in on what was what with the Inquisition. You're getting the bird's-eye view well enough, but to _really_ get a taste of how life was like for the people who did the heavy lifting, you have to get down in the dirt. Also, I was given a bit of a short shrift earlier, so if there's anything this book needs, it's more dirt, and it's my pleasure to provide it. Also more sex. I mean, we got pretty close in that last bit, but they just couldn't get it done, could they? Poor sods, all doe-eyed and horny and still too proud to roll around like respectable scoundrels. And after Beth and I showed them just how it was meant to be done in Crestwood, it's a bloody scandal it took the scallywags so long to get to it, but wait they did. It'll take us a few more knots to get there, but we'll see them hoisting the mainsail in good time, ducklings-pirate's honour.

For a few moments, though, we're going back to Crestwood, just as I did after parting with Beth and her adopted band of miscreants. (My girl's really rather good at adopting bands of miscreants, now I come to think about it. At least this particular band didn't look to her expectantly whenever the shit hit the scuppers, though. Turns out Cassandra's pretty good at taking care of that, herself.) Now why would I go back to Crestwood when all of the high and mighty of the Inquisition-and Beth-were going in the other direction?

That's easy. Ships are expensive, duckies. Not as expensive as castles, of course, but not far off. And my ship was in port undergoing repairs I couldn't, strictly speaking and in good conscience, afford. Luckily for me, my conscience has only ever occasionally flared up, and luckily for my ship, I'd been party to the theft of a perfectly good castle, which just at that moment had more than enough loot to get my ship her sea legs back. It's true that Caer Bronach had been taken over by a gang of villains during Crestwood's little crisis, and those villains deserved a good gutting for their trouble, which they got. And it's true that, grateful for their salvation and missing a mayor or anything like a bann or arl, the simple folk of Crestwood allowed Cassandra to _requisition_ the fortress without so much as a song and dance. But it's also true that Cassandra would have taken the castle regardless, and for the very best of reasons, surely. Otherwise the Promisers might get it, or the Order of the Wolf, or any of a dozen factions that all competed for the spot at the top of the heap in those days. Before Skyhold, any one of those gangs could have come out on top, in which case the Inquisition would just be a few bloody lines in _their_ book. But Cassandra found Skyhold, and so Cassandra won; and because Cassandra won, Cassandra wrote, and all those other bastards turned into bandits and raiders and fools.

I'm a bandit, and a raider, but on my best days I'm not _too_ great a fool. And I knew it _would_ get expensive to keep the big house warm enough for all the people Leliana had milling about, even in her absence, so I didn't have a great deal of time to get my money's worth. But needs must, and _my_ needs especially must, so I snuck back into the caer and took it for everything my greedy little paws could carry.

That wasn't too much, to be honest, but it was just a teensy bit more than enough to see my ship asea again, and I did it without strangling any of the Nightingale's little birdies, which is a hell of a lot better than our fair Inquisitor or Herald could have done. Between the two of them, there isn't a problem in the world they couldn't solve by stabbing it twelve times and then setting it on fire for good measure. _Messy_. I know I've not got room to talk, given the company I tend to keep, but I like to think I do things clean and quiet, when I have a choice. Fighting should be for the sheer fun of it, to get the blood flowing and to make yourself feel alive; if you've got to fight to get what you want, that usually means your tongue isn't skilled enough to get it for you. (Maybe my tongue isn't as good as I think it is, looking back on how much I've had to fight over the years. Let me ask Beth-

-Nevermind. My tongue evidently has a number of skills to recommend it, according to some exhaustive research we just now finished. Anyway, carrying on…)

I took my loot and put paid to my little side trip without any the wiser, and I tacked back to my own happy little band of miscreants as fast as the horse (for the purposes of the narrative it was _my_ horse, at least on the road from Crestwood to West Hill) could carry me. West Hill wasn't the smallest port I've had to use, but it was the smallest with a dry dock, and it didn't even have a proper brothel to keep my sailors occupied while the _Falcon's Wing_ cured its caulking and aired its hold. I found most of them drinking in what passed for the village's only real tavern, which was only too happy to have them, so long as the coin kept flowing in a steady trickle and none of the locals wound up shanked in an alleyway.

When I walked in with a pair of silver-laden saddlebags hanging around my shoulders the prospect of coin greatly increased, but so too the possibility of a drunken brawl turning deadly, especially if I was too loose with my newfound and ill-gotten wealth. "Oy, Bright-eyes," I barked, to get the elf's attention. Smoke from the braziers tingled my nostrils as I stepped into the dingy little room, but I smirked when my lookout snapped to attention.

"Captain?"

I scanned the rest of my men's faces and saw that they'd been ashore too long. "What stands betwixt us and the horizon?"

"Nothing but the wind," my trusty lookout said, which I always longed to hear. "...And the coin to clear the docks, ma'am," he amended, eying the saddlebags around my neck.

I sauntered over to his table and unslung them from my shoulders; they made a satisfying noise as they hit the rich, old wood, clinking with various bits of treasure. "That should see us off nicely," I told him, loud enough for the rest of my crew to hear. "See that it gets to the right hands, and we'll put to sea at noontide tomorrow. If any of you barnacles are too ale-sodden to stand to by then, you'll be left behind." A raucous cheer went up, as I knew it would, for my men never failed to take such a warning as a challenge. Before the dawn I expected the tavern's spigots to run dry of ale.

Bright-eyes took up the loot with a solemn vow to see it off to the appropriate coffers-fees to pay and palms to grease. He was one of the few I trusted with the task, both because he was mostly sober and because I'd known him for years; he served me on the _Siren's Call_ , back before it got smashed to driftwood in a hurricane on the Wounded Coast, and he had the good fortune to live through that fiasco...not to mention the good sense to keep his head down while we were marooned in Kirkwall. When he was gone, I cajoled my men once more to take it easy for the night, and then stealthily bribed the bartender to give them some Fereldan whiskey that was said to put some fur on your muzzle.

Then I went to the room I'd booked to share with Merrill and Carver, which is sadly not as fun as you might think, since their gorgeous little daughter was curled up between them on the bed. She was born the very same night that Beth became Champion of Kirkwall, and she's just about the most adorable thing I've ever let on my ship. (People are always surprised to find out how much I like children...or, rather, how much children love me. But it's really quite simple-I talk to them like they have something interesting to say and I teach them naughty words that their parents don't like. You could take a lesson.)

The next day, after the hugs and squeals of surprise had been gotten past and breakfast had been fetched, the _Falcon's Wing_ put to sea. I was on deck when she slid into the water, and I still get a chill thinking about how the waves rose up to caress her hull after so long on stilts. My feet could hardly keep me upright for a few heartbeats as the ship settled, but I kept my footing and ran, spinning, from stern to bow, catching myself on the front railings. There I stayed as the rest of my crew climbed aboard, or at least those of them what could still walk. The others we left to their own devices, as was the custom, for a sailor who can't hold his liquor isn't any kind of sailor I want under me. As Bright-eyes guided us out of the harbour I lingered at my post, staring out over the water, only keeping half a thought turned landward for the fate of my impossibly brave and frustratingly stubborn lover. You can hardly ever get a proper horizon in the Waking Sea, what with all the islands dotting around and taking all your attention to keep from running aground, but in that moment I could think of nothing else but the open sea that lay in my future. Nothing but leagues and leagues of blue in every direction, with neither gods nor men to guide my rudder anywhere save where I wanted it to point. _That_ is what having a ship means, duckies. The fancy hats and swashbuckling are just the cream on top.

But that freedom comes at a cost, and ships are expensive; it took nearly every scrap of silver I had plundered to get my ship back out to sea, and it would take more than I had to get it into another reputable port. And so, as much as I might've wished to stand at the prow of my ship for hours, I had to haul myself back up to the quarter deck to take the helm, and guide us to richer waters. Merrill was there at the wheel, standing in for Beth, who should've been standing in for me. "How's the chop?" I worried, a bit like a hen at her chicks. "There's not too much canvas, is there?"

Merrill gave me a long-suffering smile. "Are you more worried about me or the boat?" She wondered, and it was a marvel to see the crows' feet crinkle at the edges of her eyes, she who still saw so much beauty that the rest of us missed. "It's fine, _lethal'lan._ I've steered us through worse, while you and Hawke were below decks."

"Aye," I conceded, relaxing marginally as we passed the worst on the harbour's rocks. "Though you've never driven the Wounded Coast before," I mused, " _especially_ not in a hurricane." The memory of my desperate flight from the northern straits between Tevinter and Par Vollen to Estwatch, thence to the wide blue sea, and finally back to Kirkwall, was never far from my mind in these waters; I'd lost my first ship, and my first mate, and very nearly my life. A stray crosswave jostled Merrill's shoulder into my flank, and I was knocked out of such maudlin thoughts, reminded of all that I'd gained in the years since that awful crash. "And you never will, if I have anything to say about it," I added, flashing a smile at my favourite kitten.

Her brow wrinkled curiously. "Why don't you ever want to go back? Varric still makes a home there. It doesn't smell nearly as bad as it used to, he says. Now they've got all the bodies cleared out of the gutters, anyhow. And the templars are mainly in Ferelden, now, anyway. And Sebastian's…"

"Dead," I finished for her, shuddering at the memory. On a night of horrors, his sudden murder had stood out. "And it's Varric's home, but it was never mine, nor yours, Kitten. He's still got a nug-licking brother holed up there that he sees now and again. There's nothing there for me."

"Aveline still lives there," Merrill said, conversationally. "Varric says she's made the streets as safe as they ever were before the Qunari started mucking about, too."

"Big Girl could scrape the shit off a keel just by raising an eyebrow at it," I said, elbowing my second mate companionably. Then I looked slyly at her. "Why? Do you fancy a visit to the barracks?"

The flesh beneath those gorgeous whorling tattoos across Merrill's face darkened somewhat with the effort of bearing down on the wheel to steer us past a little spit of limestone, one of the last barriers to open water. "I might," she allowed, once the wheel could be righted once more. "I'd like Paqua to see where she was born, and I know Carver wants to see Tobrius, if he's still in the city. But it can wait until we've got some more time…"

"Time isn't the problem, Kitten; it's the coin. We'll need some more...a _lot_ more, if we want to go back to Hightown."

"Why?"

"Because," I allowed, smirking, "I might've made a promise to buy out the Blooming Rose before I left."

"Oh, that sounds lovely!" Merrill said. "I imagine Varric wouldn't mind the change in location, either…"

"If Varric deigns to come back to Kirkwall," I warned her, with a dimpled smirk.

"But why wouldn't he?"

"No reason," I shrugged. "He just seemed...comfortable, in Skyhold. I wouldn't be surprised if he hands around for the duration."

"I can't imagine that," Merrill objected. "Being so close to Cassandra doesn't sound like very much fun...at least not for him."

 _The problem is that he's not nearly as close as he'd like to be_ , I thought, but judged it too tentative to voice aloud, without further proof. (Which is coming, ducklings, not to worry.) Rather than jinx it, I jostled my not-quite-first-mate and nodded to the horizon, which was a widening strip of blue amid the muddy banks of the islands we navigated. "When we clear the fluss, set course for Estwatch," I told her. "And have Bright-eyes keep those bright eyes peeled for any unflagged merchants. I mean to dock under my own coin by the time we arrive."

"Aye, captain," the adorable elf replied, and I gave her a warm smile as I stalked off to pace the decks and spot-check the rest of my men.

They were a sorry lot, it's true, and not just from the swill they'd all of them nearly drowned in the night before. With Beth ashore, any proper raiding we did would have to fall to me and Carver, with Merrill providing support. That was partly by design, though; too many warriors on an independent vessel could spell mutiny if some of them took exception to the ship's direction. It was four days along the Waking Sea before we found prey both laden and defenceless enough to bother with; in these times of trouble, a great many ships had taken up arms, and more than a few of them joined the marines of one nation or another in order to afford themselves some illusion of protection. The bolder-and richer-captains signed onto the Felicissima Armada, which was the only _real_ guarantee of any secure shipping, but that privilege came with a hefty fee and the obligation to keep Armada men aboard to _oversee operations_. In all times and circumstances, though, there've always been captains poor and desperate enough to ply their trade along the seas without any sort of protection, relying on luck and good winds to blow them into safe harbours.

Our quarry was one such, or at least it appeared to be after a good telescoping from Bright-eyes; a two-masted brigantine, slung low in the water, with a slim crew of eight that we could see, none of whom looked very impressive. Or, at least, none of them had shoulders as broad as Carver's, which was the measuring rod I used whenever his sister was away. I called our crew to attention as we drew up alongside the boat, and it was easy to lash our decks together. Carver and I crossed over the bannister alone, and the poor crew of the smaller ship simply weren't prepared for us. Merrill remained on the _Wing_ to make sure the scallywags didn't simply sail away while I was off it, but she had her stave ready to rain lightning and death upon anyone who didn't succumb to my daggers or to Carver's broadsword. It was only a matter of minutes until that lower deck ran red with the blood of the luckless fools who'd been made to crew it by the captain, who hadn't made an appearance for the assault, given the disorganised and frightened response from the deckhands. When those sods all lay dead on the planks, I strolled up to the captain's door and rapped on it, smearing bloody knuckle prints over the glass. "Looks like we've retired your crew a bit early," I announced to the coward. "Lucky for you, that means you won't have to pay them. Unlucky for you, it means we're taking your stuff."

I stepped aside to let Carver have a crack at the door with his shoulders-his _very_ broad shoulders-but before he got the chance, that door cracked open to reveal a familiar face that I hadn't seen in years. He was an elf, skin just a few shades lighter than mine, with platinum hair and a sweeping tattoo down the left side of his face. He was dressed the part of a sea captain, with a funny hat and all, but he leaned against the doorjamb with none of a captain's cares. "I was wondering when you would take the bait, _mi bella_ ," he purred, picking a bit of dirt from underneath his fingernails.

I was still too shocked, so Carver's throat cleared before mine. " _Zevran_? ...What in Andraste's roomy bloomers are you doing on the Waking Sea?"

"Why, looking for you, of course," the Antivan shot back, letting his eyes linger on the younger man's arms for long enough that part of me wanted to take exception, for Merrill's sake. "I must say that the salty air and occasional rampant murder agrees with you, _amigo_. It has certainly been fun for me these past weeks, as well." And then he stepped forward, weaving between us and throwing a scornful look at his former crew. " _These_ sorry creatures knew little of life outside of Rialto's dungeons. Do not cry for their loss."

I hadn't been planning on it, to be honest, but I shrugged as I came up beside him. "Good to know. What I _don't_ know is whether the hold of this little barge has anything valuable enough to have killed them for, now."

He flashed me a smile. "Aside from my devastatingly handsome face, you mean?"

That earned him a deeper smirk. "Aside from that," I conceded. "What's your game? If you wanted to get in touch, you could've sent a raven."

A shadow passed over his eyes. "I have seen enough of ravens to last a lifetime," he told me, but he did not elaborate. Instead, his expression lightened, and he gestured to the cargo door up near the bow. "The ship is small, Isabela, but she holds treasures enough to see you to a friendly port."

Carver took the initiative in crossing the bloodstained deck, peeking through the slats of the cargo door. "We've got boxes, that's for sure," he said. "Enough that it'll take a day or so to sort them out once we get them back on the _Wing_." It was our habit, once we'd secured a cargo, to fire the ship and fly as far from the wreckage as possible.

"If I may make a suggestion," Zevran proffered, as much silk in his voice as I'd ever heard, "you do not have to transfer the hold's contents. Merely see a handful of men you trust to see it shadow you to port, and register it for your own once we arrive."

"What are you saying, Zev?"

He answered me by sweeping off his too-large hat and slapping it onto my head, where it hung at an angle. "I am saying, _mi bella_ , that you have been a captain too long. It may be time you styled yourself an admiral, and one to make even the Felicissima Armada worry over their sea lanes."

I tilted my head, so that my new hat rested level with the horizon. "Have you gone mad, Zev? ...Me? An _admiral_?" I had a good life, a pretty girl, and all the rum I cared to drink at my fingertips. "It sounds like a lot of work for not a lot of reward," I judged. "And a singly two-master is hardly a fleet to rival the Armada. If we want to do that, I'll need a lot more coin than whatever's in this little hold will get me."

"It just so happens," Zevran informed me, "that I have secured an invitation to a party. There will be a great many guests there, all with more coin than sense," he said. His smile grew sharp and cunning, a look even I had come to respect, in our time as friends. "It will be held in two months' time, in Halamshiral. And I can think of no better guest to accompany me than you."

...But I suppose I've kept you from the real action long enough, and while I can be selfish (except-or maybe especially-in bed), I don't want to turn the maidenshield's book into a biography about me, since I'm an innocent merchant sea captain that never gets up to any carousing (much less arousing) adventures. Instead, every once in awhile I'll pop round and humbly bring you a few fingers of the story Cassandra conveniently left out, as told to me afterwards by the prettiest mage or the least honest dwarf I've ever known, and filtered through a hefty amount of rum besides. (I might have been a bit distracted during the tellings, in other words.)

While I was off chasing freedom and fortune, Bethany was bound to the land, crawling across sand and shale, fighting darkspawn and demons and all manner of unpleasant beasties. You've heard of most of that, or at least the most interesting parts from before the Inquisition got back to their big fancy house in the Frostbacks. But I've read ahead, and I know there are some juicy morsels you wouldn't have been able to savour if I hadn't written them here. With that, my duckies, I leave you-for the nonce-to the maidenshield's capable pen. See you on the turn of the tide.

oOoOo

 _There, at the bottom of the last page of this interpolation, you see a smudge of ochre in the shape of a full set of lips, accented by a pair of drawn eyes taking the shape of a wink. Sure enough, on the next page, the narrative resumes in Cassandra's hand as though she were unaware of the interruption._


	18. Chapter 18

Author's note: A heartfelt thank-you goes out to **cofee_maker** over at AO3 for providing a much-needed pair of eyes, both to this chapter and the previous one.

* * *

My impromptu and strangely intimate conversation with the First Warden had unnerved me, more than I cared to admit at the time, and I sought refuge from my thoughts in the practice yard, once I'd reclaimed my arms and re-equipped my armour, heedless of the disturbance I might make to the good folk who yet dosed at this late hour. En route to my wooden nemesis, however, I was intercepted by Solas, whose own thoughts must have been troubled indeed to cut short his communion with spirits in the Fade.

"Inquisitor," he greeted, joining me in my descent of the shadowed stairway to the lower courtyard. "I feel we must speak privately once more, if you are amenable."

I was not, in truth, but given that our previous conversation had resulted in the discovery of Skyhold, I could not in good conscience begrudge the man. "We shall be alone enough at the yard," I judged. "What is the matter?"

"It concerns our recently-acquired allies," he said, as we descended. "And their leader, most of all." When I had no reply save a weary sigh, he continued. "Far be it from me to question the wisdom of binding our fate so closely with that of the Grey Wardens...yet I cannot help but wonder at the goals of the one who commands them. I have seen her actions echoed in the Fade during my journeys there, and I cannot say with any certainty what her ends may be, nor whether they are worth the means she is willing to employ to see them achieved."

Whether it was espionage or mere coincidence that had Solas interrogating me about the very person with whom I had so lately conversed I could not say, but I knew that the two elves had hardly built an amicable rapport in the span of days since their initial greeting in the shadow of Adamant. "So long as her forces and her mind are arrayed against Corypheus," I allowed, "it does not matter her means." My words appear foolish now, even naïve, but I then imagined myself hardened to the ways of strategy.

"Be that as it might," Solas allowed, "I only ask you to keep an open mind to the possibility that our new friends' allegiance might come at a cost few are willing to bear, even from the Inquisition."

"I shall keep that in mind," I assured him, as I finally gained the deserted practice yard. "And you should know that I keep the same consideration in mind for all of my allies, present company included." I unlimbered my arms to prepare my pre-dawn exercises, and the elf took my meaning well enough, for he departed without retort. I did not wish to speculate upon his motives for warning me about the Wardens, but if anything, I found my suspicion of Solas himself slightly renewed. Thinking the impulse petty, I resolved to subsume it with exercise, and hopefully to drain myself enough that I might expect a good night's sleep.

A sum of hours passed as I worked through my routine, designed to hone the tactics and reflexes that have saved my life on more than one occasion. When the rays of dawn began to trickle over the lip of the eastern wall and my labours were interrupted by a few of the early-rising Chargers of the Iron Bull's company, I quit the field after exchanging respectful greetings. Exhaustion gripped me, then, and I wished for little more than to retire to my room and meditate upon my blade with aid of a whetstone. But my hopes were once again frustrated by fate, as they had been so often since my return the previous noonday; where in the dark of night there had been nobody in the hall, now Varric's usual station was filled with the man himself and two other figures besides.

Bethany's expression was drawn, while a spasm of-was it fear, or simple guilt?-passed over Varric's features before they settled into his normal careless smirk. The stranger still had her back toward me, her frame swathed in hooded shadowcloth, but she turned at my approach and offered me a thin smile. She was a dwarf, of a height with Varric himself, and she took an instinctive step closer to him when I stopped short. "Inquisitor," she greeted, with a miniscule bow that did not perturb her gaze as it focused upon my face. "Bianca Davri, at your service."

The pronomen was perforce familiar to me, and I found my eyes drawn to Varric's shoulder, where he usually wore her namesake whenever he joined me in an excursion. His shoulder stood bereft this morning, and he appeared chagrined. At my raised brow he cleared his throat. "Bianca is...an old friend," he explained, rubbing his neck.

Bethany spoke up before I could inquire further. "We were hoping to see you, actually," she said. "In private." Her own eyes flitted about subtly, and I took her meaning well; in these crisp hours just after dawn the castle was coming awake, and now more than ever it was conceivable that spies might lurk among the workers and tradespeople who called Skyhold home.

"Very well," I conceded, casting my mind about for a suitable location; the only rooms I truly trusted were those which made my quarters, but the thought of bringing Varric there-especially after our last private encounter, and _most_ especially in the company of his _old friend_ -did not put me in a receptive mood, to say the least.

In truth, I have wondered about how much detail of this episode I would commit to these pages, and the better part of me wished to elide the events that follow. Yet it has been made pain to me that Inquisitor I might be, yet I am still a woman of flesh and blood, and it is important that history remembers that fact. Thus I took the lead, guiding the dwarves and the erstwhile Champion to the small study I had made in an unused room by the vaulted storeroom.

Bethany lit the braziers at my request, once I had unlatched the door and ushered them within, and Varric grunted in surprise. "I didn't know we had another library!"

"It is mine," I admitted, with something of a grimace. It was little more than an alcove, the newness of its shelves standing in stark contrast to the aged stone of the walls. The collection of scrolls and codices I had so far acquired would never be a rival to the Grand Cathedral's archives; indeed, the Inquisition proper maintained a much greater store of tomes in the central tower where Solas and Dorian resided and studied the lore and craft that we might use to defeat Corypheus. This room was instead my meditation chamber, stocked with the books I had found most useful in my life and work as a Seeker, and what few trifles I had collected for my own amusement. "We may be somewhat sure of our privacy here. Might we begin?"

We might not, it turned out. Bianca slowly made her way down the room's single aisle, running her fingers over the spines of the books within her reach, until they halted upon perhaps the one book I least wanted any of my guests to find. "Is that... _Swords and Shields_?" She mused, taking the liberty to pull out the bound codex and reveal the painted cover.

I felt my cheeks grow warm as she threw Varric a smirk, and he guffawed like a jackass. "How'd _that_ get in here?" He wondered, giving me what passed for honest incredulity. The book was one of his, and rare, but I had kept a copy among my effects since well before fate had conspired to put us on opposite sides of an interrogation bench.

"Didn't she say this was _her_ study?" Bianca thumbed open the book, taking note of the worn pages. "It looks like she's a fan."

"She is also right here," I managed, schooling my face to neutrality. "Not to mention armed. She suggests you replace the book where you found it and get to the point." I used my voice's lower registers, those that promise more danger the more quietly they are employed.

Varric spared me an instant's pity. That I had read his work for leisure was something I had prayed the dwarf never discover, but as with so many of my frivolous entreaties, the Maker had not fulfilled that request. Even so, he realised the thinness of my patience. "Bianca," he warned. "This is important, remember?"

The other dwarf's impish expression sublimated to a slight frown, and she hesitated, out of caution rather than obstinacy. "I think I've got a bead on where Corypheus is sourcing his red lyrium from," she admitted, at last. "It's a Deep Roads entrance near Redcliffe, leads through an old thaig near the surface, called Valammar. I'd have more, but there are a lot more of those Tevinter assholes than I can take care of on my own. I'm gonna need some backup."

She spoke of the Venatori, that cult of Tevinter mages that sought to exalt Corypheus, their Elder One, and thereby restore their homeland to supremacy in Thedas. We had upset many of their plans and robbed much of their support among the mages and templars of southern Thedas, but in their madness they had taken to imbibing red lyrium, as well as forcing it on the darkspawn their master had come to rely upon. "Should we not consult with the First Warden in this?" I wondered, looking to Bethany for guidance.

"That depends on how big the darkspawn presence is at the entrance we need to seal," the human woman pointed out. "If we run into a horde, we'll need to get her help; otherwise she'll likely be satisfied with a report. After the fact." The last she pronounced after a quick glance to Bianca that was not entirely approving, and I narrowed my eyes.

"Why must we conceal the mission until it is concluded?"

"Because," Bianca grudged, after sharing a look with Varric, "I sort of...accidentally led Corypheus to the entrance." My eyes did not remain narrow for long, but Bianca plowed ahead, eager now to avoid a misunderstanding. "At the time he looked like a Warden, and I thought he could help me study the red lyrium! I didn't know it would lead to all...all of this. I swear!"

I could tell that neither Varric nor Bethany were surprised by the confession, but they appeared resigned, as though they had heard it before and could not invent sufficient recrimination. "And you believe me a more reasonable authority to admit this error to than Athadra?" I surmised, crossing my arms.

"If you mean I think you're the least likely to cut her head off and mount it to the main gate," Varric supplied, with a grimace, "then yeah, Seeker. I think you're more reasonable." That he still called me _Seeker_ despite my loftier title was somehow grounding, and I found that rage was not so close as I might have expected.

"That is true enough, I suppose," I conceded, mindful that the Inquisition itself now employed a dwarven arcanist called Dagna, whose portfolio of responsibilities included analysing red lyrium. I could not in good conscience punish Bianca for doing the same, especially when I could not be certain whether her motives were malevolent. "Very well," I allowed. "Prepare yourselves; we venture out at evenfall." That would give me at least a modicum of time to rest before I must yet again face the rigours of the road, while ensuring that we commenced as soon as possible.

Varric nodded his thanks and was the first to go, with his _old friend_ close to heel. "Bianca," Bethany called, and she pointed with her chin when the dwarf turned. "The book."

Bianca gave a start, as though surprised to find the codex yet in her hand, and she spared me an apologetic smile before moving to replace it on the shelf whence she'd pilfered it in the first place. "If it matters," she offered, perhaps in gratitude, " _Swords and Shields_ is my favourite, too. I can see if he's up for writing the next edition, if you like."

I did not trust myself to answer that offer gracefully, unable to discern whether it was genuine kindness or some backhanded attempt to insinuate that she had the means to do something I could not have hoped to accomplish, and so I said nothing for several heartbeats. "Go," I managed, at last. "Ensure you are ready to decamp at twilight."

She departed without further incident, and I did not acknowledge Bethany's parting smile. Instead, when I was certain that I would pass unmolested to my chambers, I stalked from the library, making sure to secure it against further ingress...although, given the calibre Varric's usual acquaintances, I had little confidence that my latch could withstand Bianca's attentions, should she choose to test it. Finally, drained by the physical and political strain of the day, I made my way to my too-soft bed and allowed myself to fall into dreams for several hours.

Once I pulled myself from the bed and girded myself properly for the coming excursion-its character required some measure of stealth, and so I wore armour and helm unmarked by my station as Inquisitor. Bethany, Bianca, and Varric awaited me by the main gate, but we brought nobody else; Suredat-an and Sera were the only other of the Inquisition's forces suitable for the mission, and I wished for neither of them to fall afoul of Athadra's wrath, should she discover our subterfuge and name it a conspiracy. We travelled ahorse into the Hinterlands, and in a paltry sum of days and nights we achieved the entrance to Valammar.

It was an impressive sight, so near the surface that its upper reaches were illuminated by sunlight filtered through a great gash of a cavern, and it was clear that in its heyday it had been a place of import and splendour for the dwarven people. Now their majesty lay in ruins, long since picked over by adventurous treasure seekers and befouled by the darkspawn, its only value in the access it granted to the Deep Roads. I was told that the path it opened was unique, an uncluttered route to the primeval thaig discovered by Varric and Bethany in their quest for riches beneath Kirkwall.

Luckily we did not have to recapitulate _that_ fateful journey, which had brought Bethany into Athadra's care, and inexorably set her upon the path to becoming the Champion of Kirkwall. Instead our mission entailed retracing Bianca's steps to the entrance and sealing it to withstand the attention of mage and darkspawn alike. The task put us astride the path of both before it was done, but we persevered to see a thick door sealed into the rock with keen engineering.

Once or goal was accomplished, however, Varric tired of acting civilly toward his friend. We were hardly beyond the waterfall which had once marked the border between Valammar and the Hinterlands when he drew us to a halt by rounding on the other dwarf. "What the fuck were you thinking, Bianca?" He demanded, in tones very nearly as harsh as those his own stubbornness had driven me to employ during our extended conversation in Bethany's abandoned home. "I only told you about the red lyrium in the first place so you'd know to keep the hell away from it, not so you'd seek it out...and worse, lead Corypheus himself right to it!"

Bianca's flippant mask threatened to slip for the briefest of moments, but it settled into a smirk. "Anybody would've been fooled by the disguise Corypheus used...or the _body_ , or whatever. And I've already apologised for not realising what he was at the time." Her smirk took an edge of insurrection. "But I _won't_ apologise for wanting to study red lyrium, and I doubt Corypheus would have been stymied if I'd turned him down. You've _seen_ how red lyrium grows, Varric; you've seen what it does. It has the Blight. I'm sure of it."

Bethany made a thoughtful noise, possibly to comment on the stout woman's conjecture, but Varric did not pause for her to interject. "If someone else had taken Corypheus right down to that thaig, we wouldn't have to wait around for Athadra to get wind of it. Andraste's piles, I'd have shot them myself, with the crossbow you built for me!"

He made to point to the weapon named for the subject of his ire, but I did not wish to risk him allowing his rage to guide his fingers, more for his sake than hers, and so I moved to insert myself between them. "Enough," I pronounced, with what I hoped was some measure of finality. "The task is done; there is no use dwelling upon it. Let us move on."

An uneasy accord settled and we awayed from the waterfall trail, marching into the dimness of the evening in blessed silence for much of a league before it was broken by Bianca. "I don't know what you want me to say, Varric," she broached as we walked. "I made a mistake."

"You weren't the only one," he replied sourly, and I began to walk faster, mindful that the tenor of their conversation was such that I did not wish to eavesdrop. Bianca's response was indecipherable to me, but Varric's voice rose, as if to chase my retreating ears. "Of course you never do what you're supposed to, except when it's what I want you to do; then the only thing that matters is that you do whatever the opposite is, no matter what."

Bianca may have said something further, but Varric trudged ahead until he came abreast with me, despite the fact that he needed to take three strides for every two of mine. "I do not wish to speak of it," I warned him, anticipating some kind of explanation, or at least further complaint.

"Good," Varric allowed, a bit sullenly, and we settled into a pace together along the path. A glance told me that Bianca had taken her consolation in Bethany's stride, several paces behind us. Whether they conversed I cannot say, but Varric and I progressed in varying manners of silence which transmuted from strained to companionable as we traveled. I did not again look back until we found what I judged a suitable location to make or camp, but when I did so, I was somewhat unsurprised to see that Bianca had disappeared from the trail.

Varric seemed more so, for his expression went from one of haughty pique to surprise, and thence to affected indifference tinged with an echo of misery. "Well, I guess it looks like we don't have to draw for watches any longer," he gruffed, hiding his grimace beneath a smirk. "I'll take first. You get some rest."

He aimed his offer at both Bethany and I, and we set to work pitching our tents while the dwarf gathered wood and kindling for a fire; we were vigilant that Bethany only use magic in combat, lest a rogue templar take notice while we were unprepared, and so the endeavour of sparking a flame was much more involved than it might have been. Rather than complain about the outdoor work as was his wont, however, the dwarf fell to it with the fierce attention of one who did not wish to be disturbed.

I settled into a fitful sleep, too shallow to suffer dream, and was awoken in the small hours before dawn by Bethany to finish the solitary vigil that the night brought. The following day provided little more loquacity, however; Bianca's departure hung over the three of us like a rotten ceiling, as though one good rain would bring calamity. Fortunately for our company and our tents, both our tongues and the heavens spared us any downpour as we made our way back to Skyhold.

The evening of our return, I resolved to seek Varric out, both to ascertain the lay of his thoughts and to settle the unease that had been festering between us ever since Adamant. I did not speak along the road out of respect, and also out of concern that I might drive the dwarf away; such a confrontation might yet have had the same result, but at least within Skyhold my foolishness could not rob me of a watchman.

I searched, but I could not find the dwarf at his usual haunts, and he did not answer a knock upon his chamber door. Surprisingly I found him with Josephine in her office, both looking ashen-faced in a way I had not seen before. They sat with the desk between them, contemplating a note upon it, and neither of them noticed me until I approached close enough to see that it was written in coded Orlesian, though I could not decrypt the message without a cipher. "What is amiss?" I wondered, my original purpose all but forgotten.

"Markus and Antoinette…" Josephine breathed, just within my hearing. "They...they are…"

"Dead," Varric supplied, with less emotion, if no more true composure. Though the names were meaningless to me, it was obvious that they mattered a great deal to the diplomat and the dwarf.

"Who were they?"

"Kids," Varric gruffed, while Josephine silently wept. "A couple of my spies. Josephine asked me a favour, and I didn't think it was too dangerous, but it looks like I was wrong." That he called her by her pronomen rather than the nickname he had blessed her with showed the gravity of the situation. " _Shit_."

Sympathy warred with curiosity in my heart, and it was not long before my instincts as a Seeker won out and I pieced the truth together. Through their grief, I learned from the both of them that Josephine had attempted to restore her family's status as merchants in Orlais, but that an ancient contract drawn up by a long-extinct noble house had thereby been activated, which had ultimately led to the deaths of the young spies charged with carrying the Montilyet family's charter.

"I am sorry," Josephine said, once the explanations had been given and she had regained her composure. "Please forgive me for this tragic mistake; I will understand if neither of you can do so, however."

"Don't be ridiculous, Josie," Varric scoffed. "This wasn't your fault. It's these assholes at the House of Repose. And from what I can tell, it looks like they're not stopping with a couple of messengers; you could be in danger yourself."

"If that is true, then I must go," Josephine pronounced. "I cannot in good conscience bring my family's personal business into the heart of the Inquisition, much less put the rest of you in danger on my behalf."

"Nonsense," I said, taking the measure of both of my companions. Josephine was intent on bravely facing her troubles alone, while Varric seemed perhaps grateful for the distraction from his own, beneath his concern for his friend. I then realised that my fear of his departure was misplaced; the dwarf had become an indispensable member of the Inquisition, despite his occasional shows of reluctance, and it would take a great deal to dislodge him. He looked at me expectantly and I nodded in response. "A threat to you is a threat to the Inquisition," I assured Josephine. "We have resources enough to deal with it, one way or another."

Relief broke over the ambassador's features. "What do you plan to do, Cassandra? The Du Paraquettes' only surviving line is a small clan of tenant farmers outside of Val Forêt; it is only they who might rescind the contract on my life, but they lack both the coin and the standing to see it done."

That she already knew of a possible route to her own salvation showed her value, and redoubled my commitment to keeping her secure and in my employ. "Convene the council," I judged. "We will discover our options, and then we will act. Come what may, the contract upon your life and your family's fortunes will be dealt with."


	19. Chapter 19

We convened in Skyhold's council chambers, just beyond Josephine's office. Apart from we three who had previously met, there was Leliana, Cullen, and Suredat-an, who listened carefully as Varric and Josephine laid out what they knew: an assassin from the House of Repose had killed two of Varric's runners, agents tasked with carrying documents restoring the Montilyet family to trading status in Val Royeaux, which could have meant the difference between prosperity and destitution for Josephine's family. Our mysterious informant had sent a letter coded in Varric's own cipher, and it detailed just enough for Josephine to piece together the relevant facts, namely that the House of Repose had an ancient contract from an Orlesian family of note by the name of Du Paraquette, who had once stood as rivals to the Montilyets in matters of trade and politics. The noble line had died out long before Josephine had even been conceived, much less taken the helm of her proud family, yet the legacy of that bitter rivalry was all too current. That the Du Paraquettes had no surviving noble members would not have voided the contract, but it did make the contract's annulment exceedingly difficult, and in the meantime Josephine would have to contend with assassins disrupting her plans to reseat her family among the merchants of Val Royeaux, not to mention their attempts upon her very life.

Josephine laid out the contours of the plan she had begun to develop while in the throes of her grief, to seek out and ennoble the common branch of the Du Paraquettes, who would then presumably void the contract their ancestors had signed. It was a bold scheme, and a gentle one, with the potential to end the regrettable circumstance with no more bloodshed.

Nevertheless I saw flaws which I would have pointed out, had not Leliana put voice to them first. "I would leave it to you to choose the most cumbersome manner of doing things, even when your life is at stake," she said, her words coloured with the warmth of an old friend. "I have a better way-this contract is doubtless in the main vault of the House of Repose, no?"

"I suppose it is," Josephine conceded. "Though we don't actually know _where_ the House of Repose is...well, housed."

"That is only a matter of loosening the right tongues," Leliana observed, and her tone seemed far from warm, then. "It should be a simple matter to discover their base of operations, and then the work of days to plan and execute an infiltration. I could send a raven within the hour, if you liked."

Josephine appeared to seriously contemplate the offer, caught between revulsion and gratitude. "I...appreciate the thought," she said. "Truly. But there must be a way without rising violence."

"No." It was not Leliana who objected, but rather the Herald, and in her familiar obstinate tones. Despite the breadth of our experiences, though, she had not fully outgrown her taciturn nature, and so she made no attempt to elucidate her objection.

"At least the Herald can be sensible," Leliana said. "I'm sorry, Josephine. I know how much the thought distresses you, but it must be done. An infiltration is really the only way."

"No," Suredat-an provided once more.

I found myself rolling my eyes. "Speak," I commanded, in my role as her leash handler. "Tell us what splinter lies in the back of your mind."

The Herald leaned over the great oaken table upon which was spread the map of the world as it was then known to us, and she lay a heavy palm overtop Val Royeaux. "This is where the House of Repose was built," she said, in words plainer and clearer than any I had yet heard from her. "The _katariigameka_ are here. We must kill them all."

The frank pronouncement was not terribly surprising in hindsight, but I felt off my guard at the time, and Josephine was taken aback beyond the ability to properly respond.

"Do you believe it necessary, Sura?" Cullen asked, demonstrating the rapport he had developed with the Herald since the events of Adamant. "Must we truly employ such violence?"

"No!" Josephine objected. "We can resolve this without any more deaths!"

"No," the qunari demurred, and this time she did not await my prompting before she continued. "There are other contracts, other grudges."

Cullen made a thoughtful noise. "It is true that the Inquisition has grown more vast than we could have hoped in such a short span of time, and we are almost certain to have members with enemies. Moreover, we ourselves have enemies, who may already know of this unfortunate business, and could be lying in wait to exploit any perceived weakness."

Suredat-an nodded, the gilded stubs of her horns scattering the room's candlelight. "This house of _katariigameka_ must fall, so all others notice."

The Herald's growing facility with the common tongue allowed more insight into her mind, and I found there a more strategic thinker than I might have supposed from my experience with the hardly-tamed warrior-mage. Yet it was becoming clear to me, especially since I became Inquisitor, that there was more to the Herald than an uncontainable, bloodthirsty force of nature. Indeed, her bloodlust was proving quite subtle, whether by the influence of her peers or through her true spirit shining through the years of training her culture had instilled within her.

Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen continued to debate the merits of the respective plans, but ultimately, the decision lay with me. "Leliana," I said, over the three of them. "Fetch me the location of the House of Repose." Silence settled over the chamber as the implications of my command became clear, and Leliana gave me a sober nod.

"It shall be done within the fortnight," she vowed, and she melted into the shadows as though she commanded them. Her departure signaled the end of the meeting, and soon we scattered to our other business.

It turned out that Varric had a similar destination to myself, and so we walked together for a time. "Andraste knows I'm not beneath a little revenge," he said, once we'd cleared Josephine's office. "My brother and I've fucked over our fair share of rivals in the Merchants' Guild. Even so...are we sure we wanna start this war, Seeker?"

"We did not start it," I reminded him. "Yet if we cannot finish it, what hope have we of navigating Halamshiral, presuming we can secure an invitation in time."

The dwarf gruffed thoughtfully. "So it's gonna be an Orzammar feud, then." When his musing only earned him an inquisitive grunt from me, he went on. "On the surface, we like to have our fights last for years...generations, even. House Gandr and House Reingold have made a sport of killing off each other's second sons and daughters for something like three hundred years, but neither family's gonna die out anytime soon."

"It is different beneath the ground, I take it?"

"Yeah," Varric supplied. "In Orzammar, when two families have it out for one another, they don't stop until at least one of them is extinct-or, worse, exiled."

I could not conceal my snort. "Exile to the surface is truly more lamentable than extinction?"

"You're damned right," Varric allowed. "At least if your family dies with honour, your name isn't forgotten. When your eyes see blue sky, unless you're under strict orders from the king, the Shapers just remove all traces of you. Erase you from the sodding Memories and all, like you were never born." He made a rueful noise as we emerged into the great hall. "Not that that keeps half the surface families from turning _kalna_ , anyhow," he muttered under his breath, at the lower limits of my hearing, with a glimmer of despair I could not recall hearing before.

"What, pray tell, is a _kalna_?"

Varric sighed, pausing at the top of the hall's grand entrance stairway to rub the bridge of his nose. "There're enough details to fill one of my books, but most of them are bullshit," he said. "Let's just say that half of the dwarves at the top of the Merchants' Guild are a gang of assholes so conservative they don't take a piss without asking their ancestors first. They try their hardest to preserve everything about dwarven culture, to the point that if you get drunk in their house, you could be forgiven for being surprised at seeing the sun poke through the window the next morning." He shook his head and began to ease down the steps. "We call those nug-eating bastards _kalnas_."

"I cannot tell if the title taken in earnest," I told him, my feet still keeping me by his side even as I had no fixed destination, "or if it is a term of derision."

"Six of one," the dwarf gruffed. "They take pride in it, while those of us on the other side...we take what solace we can in mocking them, at least in our heads."

"So you are not one of these _kalnas_ , then?"

"No," he chuckled, with a slight edge of bitterness. "Bartrand wanted to be...Andraste have mercy, it was all I could do to get out of marrying some poor warrior caste girl with no money but just enough onyx in her name to get our foot in the door."

I paused on the first landing, unable to account for the surprise-and slight alarm-that stalked across the back of my mind at Varric's implication. "You were to be wed?"

It took Varric three steps to halt, so that when he turned, he had to crane his neck to meet my gaze. The sun was setting to my left; the last rays of the day filtered through the mountain peaks, caught by the locks of his hair, turning them to burnt gold. "Twice," he admitted. "Neither one worked out." Then he arched his right brow, and in the sunset's light I saw that it was parted with a scar I had not noticed before. "What's it to you, Seeker?"

My lips parted, but I could find no true answer. "...You are right," I allowed, ignoring the odd twisting in my gut. "It is not my business. I apologise."

We stood there on the stairway for a long moment in silence, and in that moment I saw clearly in my mind the progression of our interaction, from those first contentious days-made so by the duty I had been charged to pursue-to these latter weeks, when our détente had developed unevenly and yet inexorably into a companionship that I counted among the closest of all those who had joined my cause, if not among those who yet drew breath. I then had no reckoning of how he felt on the matter, but he removed some measure of uncertainty when a lopsided smile broke across his face. "Don't sweat it," he assured me, before glancing over his shoulder to the courtyard building where a number of our companions made their lodgings...and which, not at all coincidentally, also contained the castle's principal tavern. "What's say we go have a drink, Seeker?" He looked back to me and have another chuckle, sounding more himself with every word. "If you really want to hear about my trips to the altar, then I'm going to need one...or six. Or a dozen."

Despite myself, I could not repress the smirk that alighted upon my lips, and the knot in my stomach began to ease. "Why not?" I wondered, and I began to descend the lower stairway beside him once more.

The nature of our ensuing conversation is perforce obscure, muddled as it was by drink and noise, and so I cannot reliably convey the details. We were not left to drink alone for long, soon joined by the Iron Bull, Bethany, Sera, Krem, and even Suredat-an, but the superfluity of witnesses did not lead to reliable testimony, for all save the Herald indulged beyond the point of reason before the night was finished. The summary of the evening must therefore rest on hazy recollections; I present the generalities here not from their own merits, but for the impact the night had upon subsequent events.

Before the night descended into revelry, Varric supplied more details about his betrothals, though here I will summarise rather than attempt to recapitulate precisely, both out of respect for his privacy and our of wariness of my memory. The first, arranged by his elder brother to a warrior woman whose meagre fortune traded on the prestige of her name, would have been doomed from the start; she cared little for writing and even less for men, but her family did not consider her happiness nearly so important as a connection to an ambitious-and moderately wealthy-but nevertheless ignoble house. Rather than silently acceding to their miserable fate, however, the two dwarves worked together to sabotage the wedding. It resulted in the prospective bride's family entering a feud with the Tethrases, and Bartrand very nearly killing Varric, but the scrivener and his brother emerged from that tribulation relatively unscathed. Indeed, from the ashes of that defeat, Bartrand poured his energies into business on the surface, increasing his family's holdings such that the Merchants' Guild allowed them a seat on the leading council despite the lowliness of their birth.

The man's second failed at attempt at matrimony was far less advertent, but its roots lay in the same dwarven politics as the first. As I had suspected for some time, Varric had come within a whisker's breadth of marrying Bianca Davri, the _old friend_ whose contact he had supposedly eschewed since our trip to Valammar. As I understood it, their love had been sincere, but the Davris were far less inclined to overlook the circumstances of Varric's birth, and they had no need of his family's wealth. In fact, that the Tethrases wielded such influence in the Merchants' Guild through business acumen alone rather than by the purity of their blood formed an insurmountable obstacle in the minds of Bianca's parents, and they insisted she marry a man from a smithing family whose name was truly deserving of respect. As with so many of us, Bianca proved more devoted to her duty than to her treacherous heart, and so when the day of their elopement came, Varric's horse was the only one upon the road.

"And I've hated fucking horses ever since," the dwarf slurred, finishing off his personal recounting of his forlorn romantic history.

"Don't suppose the horses've liked you fucking them too much, either," Sera butted in, surprising the both of us with her sudden presence, her words sparking a raucous laugh from the Iron Bull not far behind. "Though I do gotta wonder at what the cooper was thinking when you ordered a barrel _just_ tall enough…"

The newcomers injected levity into what had thitherto been a private and sombre-though hardly sober-conversation, and I could not help but smirk at the shade of red that crept over Varric's cheeks as the elf plopped down beside him. He did not contest the joke, however, having been on the giving end of enough barbs to know that the exercise was often futile. By this point I had imbibed perhaps a bit too much to remain decorous, and I found myself snickering at the image Sera's words evoked. After another heartbeat the man himself began to smirk, and then to chuckle, and then to laugh until the ruddiness filled his cheeks.

The sound soon blended with the hearty bellows of the Iron Bull, along with the more melodious tones of Sera and Bethany, the latter of whom had appeared as though from the shadows. The presence of our companions spelled an end to the more private aspects of our conversation, but it felt good to share in words again, after the awkwardness that had lingered between the two of us since Adamant, which had mutated-but not disappeared-during our journey to Valammar. Though we did not say so explicitly, I sensed that in this evening we had recovered much of what we had lost, and perhaps even grown closer as companions than one might have supposed, given the circumstances of our introduction.

It was in that fraternal spirit that I allowed Varric to divulge the thrust of our plans for assaulting the House of Repose, though I was mindful to keep from boasting too loudly, for even in the Herald's Rest there might have been ears keen to spirit our words to those who would see our aims undone. The Iron Bull volunteered, both to assault the assassins' refugee directly and to help supply us with what information he could wrest from his Ben Hassrath superiors. Bethany offered her aid as well, as did Sera, but the Herald weighed against their involvement, and I was persuaded to take her advice.

The next morning-after recovering from the illness brought about by the previous night's overindulgence-we continued the work of building the Inquisition's reputation and extending its reach while we awaited the intelligence to desk with the threat to Josephine's life and her family's welfare. There were tasks both meaningful and menial, from consolidating our grip on the Western Approach to repairing roads and farmhouses around Redcliffe in recompense for the damages incurred by the mages whom we had taken as allies. There was little glamour in such work, certainly not enough to secure an invitation to Halamshiral, but it did get us recognition in Denerim and beyond as being more than a gang of bandits.

When the information came which allowed us to locate the House of Repose with certainty, the four of us-Varric, Suredat-an, the Iron Bull, and myself-set sail for Val Royeaux. We did not flaunt Inquisition heraldry, but we did little to discourage rumour, which could not but spread, given the nature of our group. Along the way I wrote the indictment that has since become famous, which I nailed onto a signpost before the smouldering ruins that were all that was left of the House of Repose once the four of us had finished with it. I reproduce it here for posterity, with perhaps a touch of vanity, mindful that even the most ubiquitous knowledge of one age may be lost before the turn of the next. I would have these words remain for as long as the Inquisition's story is told.

 _Here lie the remains of the House of Repose. They were a formidable league of consummate professionals. They took pride in completing their tasks with thoroughness and skill, and their reputation was well deserved. They never abrogated a contract once it was signed._

 _Unfortunately for the House of Repose, one of these contracts concerned the Inquisition. The House's assiduous pursuit of this contract led to an audience with the Inquisitor herself, along with the Herald of Andraste. Try as they might, the parties could not agree on a satisfactory resolution. The House could not allow its reputation to suffer from refusing to fulfill a contract, while the Inquisition could not allow the contract to be fulfilled._

 _Here lie the remains of the House of Repose. Their reputation is here, amongst the ashes, for those who care to sift them._

I wrote in such terse euphemism at the guidance of the Iron Bull, as well as that of Varric, on the advice that such a message would resound far and wide.

There _was_ an audience, and there were negotiations, but they went as poorly as I had predicted on the journey. In the end there was no recourse but violence, a fact in which I took no pleasure, and of which I am not proud. It was difficult, as hard-fought as one might expect when facing a guild of trained killers. Yet the members of the House were versed in shadow and subterfuge, while we four were of a much more direct and brutal caste. The Iron Bull and Varric both had a great deal of experience combating such tactics, though in far different contexts, whereas Suredat-an had yet to meet a foe she could not overwhelm with unrelenting force, no matter the numbers arrayed against her.

We left not a single soul alive before we burnt the mansion and staked our message by the boulevard, though of course there were agents left in the field, on missions or at leisure, so the House of Repose was not truly extinguished for some weeks thence. Yet extinguish it we did, at Leliana's direction, and even before the last remnants had been disposed of, we noticed a difference in the tone of correspondence from those engaged with us for commerce or diplomacy.

Still privately upset at the extreme measures taken in the name of her safety and the Inquisition's integrity, Josephine nevertheless handled the changing tenor of our relationships with aplomb and grace, and it was not immensely long before we secured what we do desperately sought-an invitation to attend the peace negotiations to be held in Halamshiral.

The event itself was scheduled for just over a month after we received such word, in the full bloom of summer. There were unofficial talks already taking place between the warring cousins, of course, as well as a nominal ceasefire, though it was maintained only because both sides were exhausted, and distracted besides. In the Exalted Plains and the Emerald Graves, the two fields of battle with the deepest pools of blood, there was a confluence of enemies both mundane and arcane to keep the forces from engaging in formal hostilities with one another. Groups of deserters from both armies fought under a common banner, styling themselves the Freemen of the Dales, and they proved as vicious to civilians as to the forces from whence they'd initially trained at arms. As if that were not enough, the damage done to the Veil by the Breach and the many rifts which had yet to be sealed meant that there are plenty of demons stalking the plains and forests, drawn by the passion and the carnage of the war.

With the Orlesian leaders too suspicious of one another to form a united front against this chaos their madness had helped to wreak, the Inquisition had plenty of work to do in the days and weeks between our invitation to the Winter Palace and the event itself.

In such a short time, but animated by the fires of purpose (if not universally those of faith, in the case of the Herald and Bethany), we made great progress in stabilising the Dales. In so doing we gained several followers, and even more admirers, both from the ranks of the warring factions and among the people more broadly. Such fortune allowed us some measure of confidence when the appointed day arrived for Empress Celene to entertain Grand Duke Gaspard in person; if nothing else, the Inquisition already supplied a clear alternative to the machinations of those still vying to rule in Val Royeaux.

Notably absent from the discussions, even as allies of the Inquisition, were the Grey Wardens. I had no more private conversations with Athadra after that night in Skyhold's garden chapel, and we maintained our mutual disregard for one another's designs, keeping abreast only insofar as was prudent to ensure we did not act at cross purposes. All I knew-and, to this day, all I care to know-about the Grey Wardens' activities in those frantic days is that they focused on darkspawn incursions asking the Storm Coast. Whether these darkspawn were thralls of Corypheus or simply concentrated in unusual numbers I cannot say, but I do know that the next time we faced Corypheus in battle, his host consisted noticeably fewer of the fiends than had overrun Haven and then assaulted Adamant.

But I get ahead of myself. Before that confrontation in the Arbor Wilds, I and my companions had to face enemies no less ravenous, even if they were ostensibly more civilised. Every Inquisition agent of note came with me to the palace, serving both to see and to be seen. The warriors of our number wore ceremonial armour, while our diplomats and spies were tailored in the finest fabrics the Dales and Ferelden had to offer. We were still uncertain just how Corypheus looked to interfere with the negotiations, but it was a virtual certainty that he would not let the evening pass without making his presence felt by those with honed senses. Whatever it was, we resolved to be ready.

And we were.

* * *

A/n: Thanks so much for reading along, and thanks especially to **coffee_maker** from AO3 for her excellent beta-reading skills!


	20. Chapter 20

The preparations for our reception at Halamshiral took more than a week, over the course of which Josephine became increasingly harried under the pressure. Politics threatened to dictate our decisions to an inexorable-yet nevertheless infuriating-degree, from the smallest detail of fashion to the very members of the entourage, and it was a burden upon nobody's shoulders so much as Josephine's. The balance to be struck was delicate indeed; too much magic and we risked accidentally uniting the clergy and nobility against us, while too many warriors could garner accusations of our own pretensions to the throne. On the other hand, showing little ostentation would at best be perceived as an insult, and at worst as weakness, neither of which we could afford.

Of course I had to go, being the Inquisitor, as did Suredat-an as the Herald of Andraste. Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen were my closest advisors, and they each had experience in the Capitol, so they would doubtless prove invaluable in navigating the court. Vivienne and Sera were imperial citizens in their own right, and they each had contacts to different strata of Orlesian society, so they came, as well. Varric's presence went without justification, though I could not have imagined facing the vipers of the court without him by my side. In the end, all of the principal companions we had gathered accompanied me to Halamshiral, in a calculated show of strength and diversity. It was risky, but at that point failure would have simply delayed our larger goals, and success might rely upon the presence of any one of our gathered allies.

We brought a respectable guard force composed of some of our most experienced veterans, along with some of the soldiers and scouts unused at Adamant, clandestinely led by Scout Harding. The Iron Bull brought his Chargers, Dorian brought his moustache, and Rhys brought Cole along to see the palace. Even Solas came, though he had thitherto declined to join our excursions to the Dales. We dressed according to our function: Josephine, Leliana, Vivienne, and Dorian were resplendent in finery befitting their social stations, and each wore masks of onyx and gold, which gave them camouflage to mingle with the men and women of rank in the court. Cullen, the Iron Bull, and I myself dressed in ceremonial armour declaring our soldierly occupations for all the world to see; law as well as custom dictated we carry no weapons so close to the empress, but sense guided us to conceal daggers in our boots and vambraces. Varric, Cole, Rhys, and Solas each picked their own outfits-the spirit doubtless had help from the other three, as I rather doubt he would have managed to do so entirely on his own.

Perhaps the most remarkable outfits were those of Sera and Suredat-an. The elf had obviously dressed herself in a hodgepodge of functional armour, even more clearly patched together than her usual self-stitched clothes, and she carried her daggers openly...yet she remained by the Herald's side, and so she met nothing more than grumbled disapproval. For her part, Suredat-an wore an actual coat of leather overtop a more covering harness-laced with proper chainmail-along with actual leggings.

The most notable feature of the Herald's new set of armour was the hilt of gold fixed between her shoulders, which at first glance appeared fit for an enormous blade, but which evidently carried no steel whatsoever. I would later come to learn that the weapon was magical, its template designed by a martial magister lord named Tidarion who brought Tevinter to a bloody civil war in which he perished on the field of battle. Dorian had seen Harritt and Dagna craft the hilt, imbuing it with arcane energy, so that when it was drawn a blade of pure spellcraft would sprout from the golden crossguard. Suredat-an and Sera had performed a personal service for the Tevinter mage, an act to which my duties and my suspicions had kept me from becoming privy.

For perhaps the first time since I had made her acquaintance, the qunari did not look the part of a recently-uncaged animal; the suit had the effect of modesty and even gentility when compared with her previous form of dress. Of course, comparatively few at Halamshiral had actually witnessed the Herald in person, and therefore their impressions were untempered by that experience. To them, the Herald of Andraste appeared at once stunning and terrifying, bedecked in proper armour, her gilded horns and golden weapon's hilt catching in the warm light of the reception hall when we entered to be recognised as guests of the empress and the grand duke. If there were affronted whispers complaining of the faith being defended by a horned heathen, there were also breaths of reverence and even awe that followed us beyond the vestibule.

Of course I would have preferred the whispers to the sound of trumpets and the barking voice of the imperial herald. As everyone at the ball, he spoke in Orlesian, though as has become my custom, I have here transcribed his words in the King's Tongue. "Ladies and gentlemen of the court, it is Her Imperial Majesty's pleasure to receive the most honored guests of the Inquisition," he announced, speaking loudly enough that he caught the attention of the well-dressed mob, and slowly enough that the buzz of conversation petered out before he paused for breath. "We present the Herald of Andraste, Lady Suredat-an Adaar." A smattering of applause followed the pronouncement, muted only by the protocol of politesse that dictated a detached sort of bemusement in the crowd's reaction.

I felt a pit open in my stomach when the Herald began descending the stairs to the recessed floor, knowing as I did that my own name was not long in coming. Indeed, I was next on the list. "We also recognise the Hero of Orlais, Right Hand of the Divine, and Inquisitor, in the person of Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena-"

"Ugh," I moaned aloud, praying for patience to withstand the evening. "Get on with it."

A momentary pause ensued as the herald's eyes scanned down his scroll to the end of my litany of names. "...Pentaghast," he finally said, and I began to descend the stairs myself.

[ _You notice a line in red ink, drawn in a slash from the word "names" to the margins of the parchment, where Isabela's handwriting finishes what the royal barker could not. The pirate's interjection, in full, reads_ Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Hypatia Jacynthia Emmanuella Beata Renata Victoria Cornelia Sophia Antonia Bodicea Lucretia Sabina Mattia Tigana Pentaghast.]

The imperial herald also recognised Bethany, whose reputation was well-known at court, and Varric, whose works of literature were something of a guilty pleasure among the upper classes-though later I would learn that his Orlesian publisher had been swindling him tidily, on the assumption that a dwarf in the Merchants' Guild would be full up with intrigue enough without voluntarily setting foot within Orlais to verify the reported numbers. The rest of our company had held back from the reception hall, both because many were too obscure for such formal acclaim and because we wanted to gather intelligence more subtly than would have been possible had each member been officially recognised.

Though the four of us on the floor had been called in sequence, we approached the far end as one, and soon we came beneath the gaze of Empress Celene and her would-be deposer, Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons. This night was the first they had been seen together at court in over a year, and it at taken thousands of bodies to get them to come to some kind of terms. This night they both looked ridiculously regal, both masked outlandishly as though trying to prove their claim to the throne by the weight their necks could support, though neither wore a stitch of red...either out of respect for the blood their causes had shed, or in ignorance of it. A subtle tension threaded the air as we came to rest before and beneath them, and I wondered who would be the first to speak, though I could not have judged the implications either way.

In any case, Celene was the first to part her lips. "Agents of the Inquisition, I hereby welcome you to the Winter Palace."

Not one to long be outdone, the grand duke also gestured his welcome. "May we all rest soundly knowing our bodies as well as our souls are under your protection, and may Andraste herself bless this détente."

My native practicality urged me to warn the both of them of Corypheus and his unknown machinations, but both Josephine and Leliana had drilled me until I had a different instinct to compete with such, at least while I was before the court. Tonight was to be a dance of obliquity and subtlety as much as of graceful movement upon the floor, and therefore I could not speak the simple truth that Corypheus presented a much greater threat to the empire than any familial disagreements ever could. I paused in my reply just long enough for Varric to brush my thigh with his elbow, and the brief contact was enough to loosen my tongue. "It is an honour to be welcomed, Your Majesty and Your Grace," I said, as Josephine and I had spent more than an hour practicing earlier that day. I did not bow, allowing the difference in our elevations to stand as symbol enough. "The Inquisition is here to witness the cessation of hostilities among the nobles and generals of Orlais; we do not proclaim a preference for the outcome, but we will be ready to stand against any and all who threaten the peace-not simply for the sake of Orlais, but for all of Thedas."

My words were perhaps more direct than was strictly advisable for one seeking to move up in the Game, but they were not a fatal _faux pas_. Both Celene and Gaspard indulged me with vows of fidelity to peace, and showed gratitude for the non-partisan stability the Inquisition had already helped to bring to the Dales. We were thereafter dismissed to the wings with the other guests as the next crop of dignitaries was ushered forward.

My skin crawled with the feeling of half a thousand eyes lighting upon me, evaluating and subtly judging whether or not I and my companions were worthy of advancement in the ephemeral but ever present Game whose rules had never been formally enumerated, and whose victors could not but be drawn in for another round, drunk as they were by the intrigue and power on offer. Yet it was these people who would decide the outcome of the night, perhaps ironically; those whose sole skill in life was currying the favour of their betters would now be able to choose from which fount those favours would thenceforth flow. And among them, though as yet undetected, the minions of Corypheus lay in wait for the opportune moment to strike.

Our varied strengths dictated how we countered this threat; I had no skill for subtlety, and my status both as the Inquisitor and as the Hero of Orlais all but guaranteed that I would be recognised by nearly every person whose path I crossed over the course of the ball, so I did not bother attempting to steal away. Suredat-an and Vivienne were in a similar predicament, the social stature of the latter and the sheer size of the former obviating any subterfuge. Instead the three of us remained in the ballroom along with Josephine, Cullen, and Leliana, tasked with collecting what information we could from the masked dignitaries before and during the grand dance to be held in honour of the ceasefire.

The rest of our agents were tasked with infiltrating the Winter Palace to discover what secrets might be found there, both against Corypheus and either one of the claimants to the throne of Val Royeaux. Bethany and Varric disappeared to this work surprisingly quickly, and I had to remind myself that the two had known one another for many years; this was likely not the first noble soirée they had navigated together, and though I had no reckoning of it at the time, they were not the only participants in Knight-Commander Meredith's downfall to attend this one, either. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the assassin Zevran Arainai and the pirate Isabela were also in attendance, and they worked to assist Bethany and Varric when they were not pilfering valuables from the courtiers.

The Herald proved ample distraction to the barons and duchesses who'd come to court, which was a concern, as her newfound loquacity might pierce the stoicism she could once have been trusted to maintain. Luckily Suredat-an held her tongue, possibly because Sera was nowhere to be seen in the ballroom; that in itself was a worry, but one which might be deferred until the current threat had been disposed of.

After more than an hour of conversation designed to sound perfectly idle, Varric returned to the ballroom, only to beckon me to the vestibule with the promise of someone I would like to meet. In a shadowed alcove lurked a woman with fair skin and dark hair, each lock appearing as though it had been cut and placed meticulously to give an impression of barely-tamed power. Combined with the elegance of her dress, her lack of a mask, and the knowing grin which split Varric's features, there were but a few candidates for the woman's identity. "Morrigan," I pronounced, growing certain of my conclusion by the light that flickered in the depths of her yellow-green eyes, shining with all of the cunning that was attributed in the _Tale of the Warden_. Yet, after my initial pleasure at discovering the truth, I felt confusion tugging at the edges of my perception. "Why are you not by the empress' side?"

The woman once known to some in Ferelden as the Witch of the Wilds drew up, slightly, and I felt the air shift just so, threaded with gossamer strands of arcane power. When she spoke, it was clear in her tones that she commanded such power with comfort and some ease. "My duties to Celene include defense as well as advice," she informed us, as though explaining a simple truth to a young child who could be trusted to mistake her sarcasm for indulgence. "It so happens that this night sees me better placed in shadow, at least for the moment."

Perhaps it was the practice I had been at pains to undergo, or the trial by fire in the ballroom, but I bit down on the instinct to bristle. "Very well," I allowed. "What news have you? Is there any sign of magical subterfuge afoot?"

"None," she retorted. "If you discount the Tevinter _altus_ and his bodyguards I had to slay in the palace gardens not fifteen minutes past, that is."

I discounted no such thing, and told her so. "Why has no alarm sounded?" I wondered, to be met with a raised brow.

"Because I slew them," she explained, "and saw no point in having their discovery bring the negotiations to a halt. There are doubtless more agents both foreign and domestic afoot, and 'twould only serve their interests to end this night in ruin." She drew up to her full height, only slightly less than my own, and momentarily cast her eyes over my shoulder. "I must return to Celene anon, but I can spare perhaps another handful of moments. What further information do you require, Inquisitor?"

"Have you encountered any you suspect to be templars?"

A grimace marred her graceful features. "You mean the vile abominations with tainted lyrium growing within them?"

Varric grunted thoughtfully. "Who told you about that? About the lyrium?" I knew the request was hardly disinterested, for as shocking as it was to suppose that red lyrium carried the Blight, it was not the first time we had been presented with the idea. Indeed, it was Bianca Davri who had first posed it to the two of us in hushed tones. If the smith had stopped at the imperial court, if she had gotten somehow into Morrigan's or the empress' confidence after the indecorous manner of her departure from our company, then she could perhaps have damaged the cause of the Inquisition.

It turned out that neither Varric nor I need to have worried, for Morrigan's eyes narrowed with concealed affront at the implication. "I am not in the business of whispering secrets, dwarf, nor of passing gossip as fact. I would not have said such if I were not certain."

"We apologise for the implication," I offered, exercising the diplomacy Josephine had taken such pains to coach me on. "But have you encountered any of the red templars here in the Winter Palace?"

"I have not," she replied, after an interval of consideration. "I have observed them from afar, however, and I know their purpose better than I should like to. The venatori have thus far refused to imbibe the poison themselves, but 'tis only a matter of time, in my opinion." Her eyes unfocused and she tilted her head, as though listening to a faint note subsumed by the echoes of music from the ballroom. "And if your desire to save Celene is in earnest, you will return to her side, as must I."

I turned instinctively, afraid to hear some outcry or sign of disruption, and I had reclaimed half of my steps back to the ballroom before my pulse calmed from lack of evidence of any emergency. I slowed so that Varric could keep pace, and I glanced back to the alcove, expecting to see Morrigan a half-step behind...but where the woman had stood only a handful of breaths before, there was nothing but shadow.

"I _hate_ it when mages do that," Varric gruffed, before taking the lead to the ballroom doorway. "Come on. We probably won't even see her in there."

And, indeed, we did not; we _did_ see a sight I had not thought ever to witness, however. In our absence, the jongleurs had struck up the first dancing ballad of the evening, and both Varric and I were audience to Suredat-an caught up in a courtly dance with Duchess Florianne de Chalons, sister to Duke Gaspard. Notwithstanding the political implications of the Herald of Andraste dancing with the sister of one of the contenders for the empire, which were too weighty to analyse in the face of events, there was the simple shock of seeing the qunari move in perfect step to the music. What should have been a comical display given the disparity of the women's relative statures and Suredat-an's self-made reputation was instead arresting in its grace. The pair seemed to command an energy that soon sublimated the other dancers' efforts; when we first reentered the room there were several on the floor, vying for prestige and favour, but before the song had consumed half its chords, all in the room had turned into spectators. I was told later that Florianne and Suredat-an exchanged hushed words as they danced, though none save the Herald could testify to the exchange, and she did not do so; at song's end, though, the crowd's captivation had turned to admiration for the giant, and the duchess appeared to have lost whatever gambit she had been playing at.

I had only ever seen the Herald more pleased with herself when her limbs were freshly coated in blood, though of course to the rest of the world, the slight smile curving at the qunari's lips could have gone entirely unnoticed. I did not get a chance to properly digest what had happened before the Herald disappeared, dragged away from the crowd by Sera, to what purpose I did not inquire, and could hardly speculate. Needless to say, the second dance proved something of a disappointment to those of us in the gallery, and we were able to mingle far more freely. That was fortunate, for it allowed me to receive updates from Leliana and Varric, the former of whom managing our spies while the latter of whom coordinated the activities of the more visible members of our retinue, including Bethany Hawke. I remained close to the empress and the grand duke, equally suspicious of both even as I watched for threats to either of them. Much has been made of what was shortly to come to pass, on mummer's stages and in misspelt broadsheets, but what follows here are the facts as I came to know them.

An elven woman by the name of Briala once counted herself a handmaid and a lover of Empress Celene, but she had abandoned court politics after the civil war began in earnest, owing to Celene's actions in zealously quelling the elven rebellions in Halamshiral. By the night of the ball, she had made herself into a master of whispers among the elves of the empire, both those in open hostilities with the human nobility and those still kept in serfdom. Through the skill she possessed and the threat she posed, she had garnered a private invitation to the festivities, and her presence was generally unknown to the subjects at court. She proved receptive to Leliana's overtures, interested in advancing the interests of peace, as long as that peace brought more security and prosperity to the elves who dwelt within the empire.

Celene and Gaspard's motives were far less selfless, of course, even if their means could not quite match Briala's subtlety. Celene was attempting to sway the Council of Heralds, that body of highly-ranked Orlesians whose voices would be the final word on any resolution of the conflict that did not begin with the death of one of the contenders, and she was doing so by appealing at once to their chauvinism as well as their fear of further dissolution. She had also overseen the murder of a member of this council, with evidence fabricated to implicate Gaspard in the deed; that the crime had gone unannounced was a product of the Game, and that the evidence had not been discovered was the fruit of Briala's cunning. Gaspard, for his part, favoured answering silk with steel; he was smuggling Orlesian and Fereldan mercenaries into the Winter Palace under the guise of couriers and servants, with the aim of murdering Celene and any other nobles who disagreed with his right to assume the throne.

Complicating matters were the venatori, as well as Corypheus' as-yet-unknown allies among the Orlesians. With these four factions at play, along with the not-inconsiderable force of the Inquisition's most famous warriors, it was perhaps a miracle that the palace was not simply rent asunder. As the night drew on, however, my people worked to defuse tensions and settle accounts as bloodlessly as they could; Bethany and Varric worked with Briala to defeat the few remaining venatori, while Sera and the Iron Bull and the Herald of Andraste saved the leaders of the mercenary companies from Corypheus' assassin, both undercutting the fiend's plans and earning the loyalty of a corps of skilled infiltrators.

Near to midnight, with the stalemate drawn out only by the greatest effort to keep the forces balanced, the assassin revealed herself as Florianne, who had been promised corporeal rule over southern Thedas when Corypheus assumed his throne in the Black City. She aimed to kill Celene, of course, but also her brother, and she would likely have succeeded, but for my intervention, along with Morrigan's. The empress' advisor was poised to kill the duchess, but I interceded, too mindful of the woman's value as a source of information. The unintended consequence of my evident mercy was that the entire court heard Florianne ranting about Corypheus as she was taken into our custody, and I found myself in the uncomfortable-but perhaps inevitable-position of being the true broker of power at the ball.

Private negotiations between myself, Celene, Gaspard, and Briala took us into the first hour of morning, but no matter the lateness, not a soul of import in the palace could afford to retire to bed. The issue at contention was the obvious fact that neither Celene nor Gaspard would suffer the other one to live, should they secure the empire for themselves; Briala could not rule outright, but she had ample reason to be confident that she could exercise influence from the shadows regardless of the outcome, though of course the nature of that influence, along with its stability, perforce differed between the two claimants. Therefore the decision for whom to support for the Orlesian throne reduced to deciding which of Celene or Gaspard was worthy of the headsman, and which was worthy of the world. Warrior I had been, responsible for the deaths of hundreds by my own hand and countless more through choices of strategy and the scarcity of time or skill, I still did not take such a decision easily.

There is no suspense in here revealing the outcome, for posterity has surely recorded it in many forms and venues that may well survive after the last copies of this tome have been consumed by moth or by flame, yet I wish to record my reasoning for ultimately offering Empress Celene the support of the Inquisition. Though I had my own private reservations, and a great deal of respect for Gaspard as a man of action and a master of war, I could not support him simply out of my own prejudices; the decision balanced the fates and the hopes of thousands. Not only had Celene proven herself a match for Gaspard's tenacity, she _had_ been the only ruler many of her subjects had ever known, and a more just one than many had ever given her credit for. And while Gaspard might serve the immediate goal of rallying troops against Corypheus' darkspawn and red templars, should we succeed, it would only have been a matter of time before he came to view the Inquisition as a threat to either be absorbed or eliminated. Ultimately, I foresaw further war, greater reprisals against the elves, and the eventual attempt to reconquer Ferelden and perhaps even Nevarra. That was not an outcome I could in good conscience support.

And so I did not do so.

* * *

Author's note: Thanks so much to coffee_maker at AO3 for beta-reading this chapter! It was really fun to write, but kind of annoying to upload-it looks like isn't accepting .docx uploads any longer, which is how I save my files. If this problem persists, I'll have to seriously consider abandoning in favour of posting exclusively on AO3. If that happens, I'll post another 'chapter' letting you know, and giving instructions for how to find the story on AO3. In any case, thanks for reading along!


	21. Chapter 21

Wasn't that just _fascinating_ , duckies? You have to hand it to the Inquisitor, she takes a great deal of pride in being even-handed to her foes, almost as much as she enjoys being tight-lipped about herself and her friends. Lest you think the night _ended_ with Gaspard's beheading, however, let me set your mind at ease; the Seeker did not repair to her bedchamber when negotiations concluded-instead she remained on the balcony where the meeting took place, even as the rest of the court struck up a dance in celebration. Your favourite rapscallion was also skulking about for eavesdropping, and the things I witnessed I now pass on to you, being a fair-minded scoundrel with a taste for posterity. I think the Inquisitor would approve, don't you?

It wasn't long before a certain sturdy dwarf joined said Inquisitor at the railings. "I wouldn't've said it was possible to end a war with a snarl and a cutting glance, but you managed to do it, Seeker."

She rolled her eyes at the complicated compliment. "The war is far from ended," she insisted. "And it took far more than a growl of mine to put this unrest behind us. Pray tell, just _who_ was it who found Celene's pet lover trussed up on the bed in her private chambers, naked and awaiting her return?"

"That'd be Isabela," Varric admitted, and without even having to be tortured first. The bastard. "Normally I'd have advised a bit of scepticism about that kind of story, but I had a look for myself, too. Maker's honest truth!"

"It must have been," Cassandra conceded, though wryly. "At any rate, the threat to reveal it was effective in adding a bit of leverage...so you have my thanks. You and the pirate both," she added, likely just in case I was listening in-which I was, of course, but she had no way of knowing that. "The truth is, I do not believe I could have made it this far without you, Varric."

The dwarf chuckled, patting her on the forearm. "I'm flattered, really, but I think we both know that with our without me, there's nothing you'd let stand in your way. It's one of the things I love about you, Seeker." His hand settled beside hers on the banister, and Cassandra found her little finger brushing against his.

"What else?"

The question hung in the air between them for a long moment, the woman incredulous that she had managed to speak it, the man unable to formulate an adequate reply. "...What?" He managed, after swallowing thickly.

"We should take our rest," the Seeker said, in lieu of clarifying. "Thank you again for your efforts on our behalf."

As she turned to go, though, Varric grasped her hand in his own, looking up into her eyes when she cast her gaze over him expectantly. "I love your courage," he told her, as seriously as I've ever heard him talk to anyone who isn't his brother. Then his lips tipped into a smirk. "And I love it when I manage to get you to smile, especially like that."

"Like what?" She wondered, but the smile on her lips didn't fade as she asked it.

"Like nobody's ever managed to tell you how gorgeous you are, Cassandra."

Her smile did falter, then, but only for a second; it reasserted itself after a blink, along with a flush of colour on her cheeks. "Of course that isn't fair for you to say, since I'm certain I've read that in one of your stories."

The dwarf clapped his free hand to his breast with a grunt. "You wound me, Seeker! I would never reuse a line on a real-live woman, no matter how accurate it happened to be."

The Seeker's grin devolved into a smirk of her own and she canted her head at him, her fingers lacing through his. "And we both know how honest you have been in all of your dealings with me," she observed.

"A regular oracle," the dwarf concurred, leaning more heavily against the banister. "At least since you started pointing your sharp objects in the other direction. My tongue has been known to develop a mind of its own when it thinks it's in danger of being cut out, you understand."

"That is surprisingly good to know," Cassandra mused, slipping closer to his side to look out upon the gardens. "From this height, it is impossible to surmise that there has been any death here tonight, nor any unpleasantness at all; it appears nothing short of enchanted."

"That's what money'll get you," Varric replied, making no attempt to reintroduce the gap that Cassandra's movement had closed between them. He glanced upward, catching sight of Satina hanging in the sky like a small jewel, though the angle meant he doubtless caught sight of the Seeker, as well. "Of course, money only gets you so far. Some of the most beautiful things can't be bought."

Cassandra's brows drew together as she regarded him almost warily, though her smirk remained. "I cannot decide whether your flirting is meant to drive me to distraction or to your bedchamber." She took his surprised guffaw as something of a challenge, because she turned more fully toward him, leaning her elbow upon the banister. "Tell me, do you even know? Or are your tongue's motives a mystery to you, too?"

The poor dwarf worked his mouth like a fish gulping air for a pair of seconds before he recovered the power of speech. "I...wasn't aware that the second option was actually an option, Seeker."

"I did not say it was," she reminded him.

Varric's expression grew more serious. "Look, we're...friends, right?" He waited for her nod before he continued. "I mean I can't say I don't mean anything by it, but I don't wanna make you think…" The wordsmith searched for the proper phrase, and found it wanting. "I'll stop. Flirting, I mean. Sorry."

Silence hung between them for a couple of heartbeats, but neither moved to unlace their fingers in that time. Finally Cassandra found her voice. "...And if I did not want you to stop?"

Another pause, during which a mischievous light began to glint in Varric's eye. "I'd have to wonder whether you were wanting me to drive you to distraction," he mused, "or to _your_ bedchamber."

"I was not aware that the second option was actually an option," the Seeker said, the grin evident in her voice.

"I never said it wasn't," the dwarf replied, lowly. It was all I could do not to lean through the bush and tell them to get on with it, but for the sake of love (and a good story) I persevered, arduous as the task of restraint might have been. "Maker, but you're a handsome woman," he remarked. "You know, I always thought so, even when your thugs had me by the armpits."

"Yes, well...I admit that I had once or twice indulged in a fancy, thinking that I might meet you someday, should my duty bring me to Kirkwall."

"Really?"

"Really," Cassandra insisted, looking more serious. "I have admired your tales for more years than either of us would likely care to remember, and I...regret that when my duty finally did bring me to Kirkwall, it also brought you astride my path."

Varric whistled his surprise. "You really fooled me, back then. I figured I was just another mark to you, someone to pump for information."

"Once your name crossed my desk, you were." Cassandra allowed the silence to linger for a pair of heartbeats before the corners of her lips tipped once more. "It pleases me more than I can say to have regained your trust in the time since, and to have been able to extend my trust in turn."

If he was taken aback by the sober confession he did not show it, instead bringing her gloved hand up to his lips for a faint kiss. "Then I'm honoured to have earned your confidence, my lady Seeker. May Andraste strike me with piles if I ever betray it."

"Again," she reminded him, her expression far more serious than it should have been.

"...Again," the dwarf conceded.

"And do not blaspheme," Cassandra scolded, her eyes hardening until a bit of colour fled Varric's cheeks the warrior woman's frank admission, he did not show it, chuckling instead like a parrot on the wing. "Well, if anyone'd asked me back then if I knew I'd wind up standing here, on a balcony in the Winter Palace, holding your hand...I would've told them to keep their day jobs, because fortune-telling obviously wasn't their forté."

"It is a surprising development," she admitted. "...But not an unwelcome one."

Just at that moment, my attention was drawn off of the pair, as I noticed some noble arsehole sidling closer, looking like he wanted to snatch a moment's conversation with the Inquisitor. Since the Inquisitor was at present engaged in a private conversation that no masked ponce had any business interrupting, I gamely intervened, which took a great deal of skill to pull off without alerting the warrior and the dwarf. By the time I sent the interloper packing and returned to my hiding place, the conversation had moved on, and it seemed the ship was in danger of losing its sails.

"It has been a very, very long day," Cassandra said, with the kind of sigh usually reserved for disapproving priests.

"And yet you haven't actually killed anyone tonight, Seeker, as far as I can tell," the dwarf mused. "Unlike some of us, anyway…"

"If you were not entertained by my handling of court politics, I am certain we can take a detour through the garden on the way to our sleeping quarters; there may yet be some errant venatori in search of a blade."

"Now that does sound romantic...but like you said, it's been a long day. Maybe I should just take you to bed, instead?"

The warrior's brow slowly arched. "...Did you mean to ask if you could escort me to my bedchamber, dwarf?"

"Of course," Varric insisted. "What did I say?"

She shook her head, unable to contain the little smile that stole across her lips. "Nothing," she allowed, turning from the bannister while keeping her hand in his grip. "Shall we?"

"As you wish, my lady Seeker," he supplied, and they set off just as the minstrels renewed the music for the start of a new dance. I had to be quick about hiding and stealthy in my stalking-all for posterity, I'll remind you-but luckily for the three of us, the rest of the court was entertained by watching Sera and the Herald making a fool of themselves on the dance floor, oblivious to the rest of the world. It would have been fascinating to witness if I hadn't already hitched my wagon to the least likely couple in the whole of the Inquisition. (Even if they, strictly speaking, hadn't yet become what you would call a couple-that is coming, duckies. Pirate's honour.)

Now, I had to be stealthy all along the corridors to the guest wing, so I missed the snickered banter that the dwarf and the warrior passed through the halls, at least until they reached Cassandra's door. There they hesitated, and I was able to sneak behind an enormous vase that some imperial decorator had conveniently placed within whispering distance of the entryway. "Whelp," the dwarf gruffed, "I guess this is good night, Seeker."

"I...suppose it is," Cassandra conceded, but she looked no closer to relinquishing the dwarf's grip than she had at the beginning of their walk. "Unless…"

"...Unless?"

"Unless you were in earnest about taking me to bed," the warrior supplied, but lowly, so that I had to strain and risk notice to make out her words.

They went without reply for too many heartbeats before the dwarf was able to muster more than a disbelieving laugh. "You're serious?" He wondered, at similar tones. I could see a hint of colour rising in her cheeks, and he must have, too, because his tongue grew more nimble before she could retract what she'd said. "I mean...if you're saying what I think you're saying, then...yes. I was in earnest, for what it's worth."

It must have been worth a captain's ransom, it turns out. "We are both of us adults," Cassandra said. "And unencumbered, though neither of us may have hoped for such. In any event, I will understand if you do not wish to complicate matters between us…"

Varric looked up and down the hall, forcing me to duck back behind the vase, but I could make out his words well enough, withall. "I'm not going anywhere you don't want me to, Seeker. If you want to say goodnight, pretend I never said anything, we can do that...there isn't anyone here to say otherwise." Oh, how wrong he was, though of course he didn't know it at the time. Instead of taking the out he offered, though, the Inquisitor screwed up her courage and pulled him through her door, taking care to close and latch it firmly behind them.

You may have noticed how scrupulous I've been in recording these facts without embellishment; I assure you, my ducklings, that is only to impress upon you the reality of what theretofore passed. Now, though, I'm going to indulge in a bit of speculation about what came next-speculation buttressed by what I saw and heard through the keyhole, and what I needled out of Varric on the way back to Skyhold. The bald facts are that Varric entered Cassandra's bedchamber at Satina's height and did not emerge until well after sunup. Most of the details of what happened between these two happenings are lost to history-which means I get to make them up to your heart's content.

"Seeker," Varric rumbled, resting heavily against the closed door as she finally disentangled their fingers and began to work herself out of her armour.

"Do not just stand there with your mouth agape," the Inquisitor admonished, working at her buckles and giving him a sidelong glance. "If you wish to see this armour piled upon the floor, those fingers of yours could do well to help me."

"Yes ma'am," the dwarf acceded, kicking off the door and moving to help her shed the ceremonial plate and chain that had weighed her down all evening. It took more minutes than he probably would have liked to get all the clanky bits in a pile, but finally the Inquisitor stood before him in nothing but her padded undershirt and leggings. "Maker," he swore. "How do you even manage to do this without a squire?"

"Too slowly," she replied, casting her eyes down and away as though abashed. If her courage waned in the last moment, though, it was buoyed by Varric's hand, which moved to cup her cheek when she hesitated. His palm rested lightly along her jawline, his longest finger curling beneath her earlobe, his thumb grazing down the scar cleft into her face. She looked into his eyes, both sets such a similar shade of brown, and yet so different in cast and character. Where hers were wary, guarded and cool at the best of times, his were warm and earnest, as though backlit by the stories that lived in his mind. His warmth wicked through his fingers and into the flesh of her face, drawing her more fully into his touch, and she leaned forward instinctively, bringing a hand to his shoulder for leverage as he drew her down.

That first kiss was tentative, shallow but not brief, and they both kept their eyes open and locked upon the other's as their lips lingered. One heartbeat bled into another, and it became clear that the dwarf would not push, however ardent he'd proclaimed his desire to be. Theirs was not a romance born of flowers and poems, of distant yearning leavened by intermittent passion, of the sort she had enjoyed with her nave for much of her life; it was not necessarily better or worse, what she had now...just different. And after the year she'd had, the Inquisitor _needed_ different.

Varric was the first to blink, the first to break in the duel of their shared stare, the first to break the spell sketched out by their hesitant lips. Though it had not been a toe-curling clash of tongues, both warrior and dwarf had to catch their breath, their hearts stirring to rob them off breath. "You don't want me to go?" Varric wondered, thickly, having to swallow against the need crawling up his tongue.

Her brow drew down, her own voice rather huskier than it had any right to be. "Not at all," she breathed, the same three syllables she'd spoken in Kirkwall in answer to a different query from the selfsame dwarf, though what once had been a sinister undertone was tinged now with an edge of lust and shaded by an even deeper need, one she had not even properly expressed to herself. "Do you wish to leave, Varric?"

"No, Cassandra," he told her, giving her name as much weight add she'd given his. "Not for a good long while, yet."

"Then show me," she breathed, her fingers vicing into his shoulder.

There was nothing tentative about their kiss this time, and though Cassandra fought to keep her eyes lighting on his rugged features, she found her lids nearly too heavy to resist when his tongue parted her lips, his arms banding around her torso, one at the small of her back and the other just beneath her shoulders, thick with more muscle than a self-described businessman had any right to possess...not that she could complain, or even consider the matter at all closely when he took a half-step back and pulled her to her knees so that it was she who must arch her back and he who loomed over her. Her own strength melted under his influence, one hand nestling betwixt his shoulder blades, the other fisting in his hair, clinging as though to a plank, getting lost in the gyre his lips and tongue stirred within her.

Varric, for his part, found himself caught between the welcome inferno of her mouth and the stifling heat of his coat, sweat already beginning to bead upon his brow, but he dared not be the one to break her kiss a second time; this was the first real kiss he'd had in a lot longer than he cared to remember, and he was going to savour it for as long as he could. The fingers in his hair twisted, building up the pressure until the thong of leather gave way and loose strands fell about his face, tickling over the Seeker's cheeks until she laughed into his kiss. The sensation broke through the last of her inner resistance and she finally allowed the slits of her eyes to close, the tension in her lips draining away as she truly melted into him.

It had also been too long since her last proper tongue lashing, and far longer since anyone stronger than her had touched her without ill intent, but there was a security in that strength, an anchor she could hold fast to even as the storm built on the horizon. It was she who broke their kiss this time, to catch her breath if for no other reason, and she slid from his arms with a swordswoman's grace and a regretful cast to her expression. Rather than speak her apologies, however, the warrior woman rocked back onto her heels and stood, reclaiming the advantage of the high ground. The dwarf's desire was written in his eyes, but he took the opportunity to shrug his coat onto the floor and work himself out of his boots. Cassandra only took a moment's indecision to peel off her padded undershirt, and after a breath they both stood in nothing but their trousers. Varric kept his gaze to her face as long as he could, but as soon as her eyes slipped down to admire the dwarf's broad chest, he returned the favour.

They'd both earnt a catalogue of scars over the course of years their lives had taken, though whether it was from her own stubbornness or his penchant for dodging, her catalogue was quite a bit more formidable than his. You couldn't tell it to look at his face, though; he saw every inch of her without flinching, and she saw herself reflected in his eyes and she knew what it was like to feel beautiful to someone again...even if only for a night.

When they came together a third time, it wasn't overly cautious like the first, nor heedlessly heated like the second, but more deliberative, an exploration of murky shores. Their fingers traded caresses on each other's shoulders and flanks as Varric's lips and tongue began mapping the line of her collarbone and the curve of her throat, territory he'd seen at a distance, but had yet to properly chart. His palm glided up the inside of her thigh, thick fingers testing the heat of her core through the cloth of her britches, and she drew him back toward get too-soft bed for want of pushing him down to the floor. She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and found that it brought them to a similar height, so she wasted no time in reclaiming his mouth with her own lips, even as his meddling fingers lifted a low, needy groan from the depths of her chest. Her hands slid lower on his hips, fingers testing the top of his trousers and finding them pliable enough to slip her knuckles beneath the band; she tugged him closer, satisfied by the captive stiffness that pressed into her core, and even _more_ satisfied by the yearning grunt that her heat tore from him in its turn.

The dwarf didn't stay idle long, his left hand sliding up the back of her neck to grip her hair and lever her head back, giving him renewed access to her throat even as his right hand fumbled at her laces, and she obliged his efforts by sliding her hips forward, bringing her knees up to either side of him. Still attending to the flesh at the hollow of her neck and shoulder with his mouth, Varric pulled back enough to let her peel out of her leggings, and she wasn't long in tugging his own trousers' laces. They both paused to take fuller stock of one another when the last of their clothes lay in a tangle by their feet, and once again Varric's eyes wrote his desire as plain as a manifest for her to see as he beheld her. His palm moved from her shoulder to the now well-charted expanse of her neck, his thumb playing along the bottom of her jaw as he looked into her eyes, his lips parting for a single, hopeful question. "Yes?"

Cassandra's fingers slid from the curve of his hips to the planes of his shoulderblades, her eyes roaming from his newly-exposed girth to his broad jaw and stubbled cheeks, and finally to those aspiring eyes; she had imagined this, imagined _him_ , though she hadn't fully admitted it even to herself, before tonight. In the span of heartbeats it took her to answer, she understood that she'd wanted him for a long time, and she couldn't think of a single reason not to take him. "Yes," she told him, breathlessly, inclining her head just so. "...Yes."

...And I think that's enough friend fiction for one history book, my lovely duckies; if you want more, you'll just have to go scrounging through the library to find it. Just look for any scrolls sealed with my kiss. (Also, just in case the Inquisitor ever _does_ read this codex and takes exception, she'll do well to remember that I _could_ have kept writing and didn't. Also Varric would be very sad if I were keelhauled.)

oOoOo

 _At the bottom of this page rests the now-familiar kiss stained in ochre, with the winking eyes, along with a pair of short notes scribbled in different hands. The first is nearly as jaunty in its script as the pirate's, and simply reads 'You know, the door didn't even_ have _a keyhole. Good try, Rivaini.' The second is only a bit longer, though its script is tighter, the letters more considered, much closer to the author of the narrative._

' _I must wonder if it was worth missing a night with Hawke in the Winter Palace for this, especially when the reality was even more satisfying than you could have possibly imagined.'_

* * *

 _Author's note: Thanks so much to **coffee_maker**_ _at archiveofourown for lending her eyes yet again. If anyone is interested in seeing the follow-up encounter between Varric and Cassandra that *doesn't* fade to black just as it gets interesting, I've started a companion collection on archiveofourown called_ Apocrypha of the Inquisition _, whose first chapter details round two of the above. It was a gift to coffee_maker, so you should be able to find it from either of our profiles over on AO3._


	22. Chapter 22

Many relatively small but nevertheless important tasks occupied much of our time in the weeks following Halamshiral. Our forces moved much more freely in Orlais with Empress Celene's blessing, and we helped to secure many areas from deserters, bandits, and the red templars and mages which came to form the bulk of Corypheus' remaining forces. We did not act in concert with the Grey Wardens, but whatever occupied the order's time, it seemed to have robbed Corypheus of a great many darkspawn, which cannot but have frustrated him. We also attempted, perhaps foolishly, to pursue a more formal alliance with the Qunari peoples, using the Iron Bull as an intermediary. I was not myself party to the mission designed to secure the pact, but the Herald was, and I will here summarise her brief accounting.

Suredat-an accompanied the Bull and his Chargers to a rendezvous on the Storm Coast, where a ring of venatori were attempting to smuggle red lyrium to Tevinter. The Qunari supplied the intelligence, along with a dreadnought to intercept the smugglers' ship close to shore, while the Inquisition forces would deal with the enemies on the ground. If the operation were successful, it could be built upon for future collaboration. And so far as it went, the plan did succeed-the venatori agents were halted from their smuggling, and either killed or driven into the countryside, but this success was not without an insurmountable cost. Namely the Qunari dreadnought was sunk as a result of the Iron Bull's loyalty to his men, which was enough to declare him _Tal-Vashoth_ -an outcast, no longer a follower of the Qun. It was a personal blow to the Bull, and removed an avenue of intelligence from the Inquisition, but ultimately I believe the lives of the Chargers were worth more than an alliance with the northern heathens, withal.

In due time, despite this setback, the banners of the Inquisition flew from keeps and fortresses from the Western Approach to the bannorn in Ferelden, and with the removal of political distractions, we were able to focus directly on planning another confrontation with Corypheus himself. Such was long overdue, made more so by the defensive posture our success had pushed the fiend into, but at last we had a lead on where the battle might be joined. The planning council was attended by myself and my principal advisors, of course, but also by Solas and Dorian, along with Bethany, each of whom had advice or concerns to air in the discussion. At the last minute, Athadra joined us as well, making her first appearance at Skyhold since before the Winter Palace.

Thus the war room was unusually crowded when Commander Cullen called us to order by placing a wooden totem onto the great map, in the southern Dales, close to its edge. "Our spies and scouts have noted a concentration of red templars and venatori converging on the Arbor Wilds, apparently in search of something in their own right, but in numbers too great to be a clandestine affair."

"Could it be cunning?" I wondered. "A diversion meant to lure us into an ambush?"

"That is possible," Cullen conceded. "Though it is doubtful. Unless our estimates of forces loyal to him are too pessimistic by half, or he's holding a great mass of darkspawn in reserve, the bulk of Corypheus' forces have been committed to scouring the Wilds."

All eyes shifted to Athadra, the same question on the front edge of all of our minds. Leliana broached it first. "Have you any notion of the darkspawn threat we may yet face, Warden?"

The elf's face was inscrutable beneath the broad-brimmed hat and cloth bandana she wore to obscure her maimed eye and occlude the sunburst symbol burnt into her forehead, and she regarded each of us with equal wariness, showing no preference to the spymistress she'd known for a decade, nor especial enmity toward the elf with whom she had traded words at the foot of Adamant fortress. "The 'spawn ain't as troublesome for you as the Wardens he's pulled to his side."

"What do you mean?" Solas demanded, his voice surprising in its urgency. "Have you seen defections among your ranks?"

"No." It was not Athadra's voice that answered, but the Herald's, her fulsome growl as authoritative as ever. Against expectation, however, Suredat-an supplied more information without any further promoting. "They are from before _basalit-an_ returned."

The Warden's eye flicked to the Qunari, her face tightening with a grimace. "Aye, and after I killed Corypheus with me own swords, for what that's worth."

"He must have risen after you left," Solas conjectured. "Some dormancy in the taint, perhaps, or deep magic to feign death."

That blood-coloured eye swiveled to the bald elf, and an edge of malice, or perhaps affront, did sharpen in her gaze. "When I kill you," she said, "you die."

"Such is not always so," came a voice from the far corner of the room, and I turned my head to see Morrigan emerge from yet another shadowed alcove, as though she made the practice a habit. Though uninvited to this particular counsel her presence was not strictly a surprise, as she had accompanied us from Halamshiral as something of a sign of good faith between Celene and the Inquisition. The intervening weeks had seen her shorn of her fancy trappings, and in our company she looked to embrace her upbringing in the Korcari Wilds-clothed in furs and boots, her leather skirt seemingly crafted from belts of different colours and casts, her eyes kholed in evenshade and her hair half a tangle. She looked for all the world a dangerous creature from well beyond the borderlands of society...which, for all her keen mind and deft navigation of court, was perfectly true.

The woman's words stole the attention of the gathered council and we all turned to look upon her. Her own gaze, however, did not waver from the sight of the Warden as she advanced from the corner to a place of prominence at the head of the great table. "There is at least one other dread and ancient creature you swore to fell, and yet which still treads the space between power and promise."

The malice in Athadra's expression evaporated, and if there were any doubts to harbour over whether the tales of their affair had merit, those doubts could not but be assuaged by the mix of pity, longing, and regret that stole over the Warden's scarred face in the heartbeats following Morrigan's pronouncement. "I'm sorry I weren't strong enough," the broken elf supplied, before the mask of malice slipped back over her features. "I swear to you I will be, for all I've yet to do."

If that response was the one Morrigan had hoped for she did not show it, instead drawing her head high, evincing an equanimity that gave a sinister edge to her barbarian appearance. "And what have you yet to do? Which cause have you to sacrifice for this time?"

Though the room was crowded with people eager to address the business at hand, suddenly we all felt like interlopers in a much more private discussion. "The only one you've ever had cause to know me for," Athadra replied, roughly. "If that ain't why you saved me from Lambert, I'm sorry, but it's why I'm here."

The witch had no proper answer to that, and Athadra's frank acknowledgment of her jab confinement-or at least her liberation-drew a tension across the room that was difficult to define. I and Cullen felt guilty and ashamed that the former Lord Seeker had been able to abduct the Commander if the Grey in Ferelden, while Solas was nakedly curious, Dorian was appalled, and Bethany and Suredat-an appeared grim. Josephine cleared her throat, the first of us to recover some sense of direction in the discussion. "With respect, the end of Corypheus is why we are all here," she reminded us. "Where do we stand in that endeavour?"

"We must find the secret to his survival," Solas posited. "Not only of the ages, but evidently of grievous wounds which should have killed him."

"I know how the bastard started breathin' again," Athadra claimed with a glance to Bethany and Varric, "after we brung him down in the Vimmarks."

"Do enlighten us, _dirth'am'en'da_ ," the taller elf enjoined, and though I could not understand the appellation he bestowed upon the Warden, his tone and her reaction were telling enough.

"That ain't your business," she told us, without blinking, or indeed wavering her stare from Solas. "The only thing you gotta know is that those Wardens he's got with him _have_ to die, to a one." Then she looked around at the rest of us gathered there. "That's why we've got to work together in the Arbor Wilds-you and yours to check his plans, and me and mine to take our brothers and sisters to task for succumbing to his influence."

"Is that not dangerous?" Josephine wondered, her brow wrinkled in concern. "Will your own forces not be at risk of coming under his sway?"

"No," the Warden countered, and she seemed content to leave the matter there. "All you need to do is agree to let me bring my Wardens to the Arbor Wilds, and to stay out of our way once we're there."

I knew that the choice before us was to condone Athadra's participation in the looming conflict, or to protest it, and have her forces there against our will. While the Inquisition had grown beyond our wildest dreams in recent months, and now there were at least three Inquisition soldiers under arms for each one of the Grey Wardens with even more allies that might be called, it was an unconscionable risk to tempt the Wardens' disfavour. Athadra doubtlessly knew that, and yet she had still approached as a friend-albeit an irascible one. "I have no objection," I allowed, "as long as we coordinate enough to keep from accidentally attacking one another."

"We'll be easy to spot," Athadra pointed out. "Just make sure your army leaves us alone, during the battle and after it."

Bethany aired a thought that plagued me as well. "Are you certain all of the rogue Wardens will be there, with him?"

"They won't be," she admitted. "But that is my issue, and it _will_ be done." Her eye turned once more to look upon me. "Do we have an understanding, Inquisitor?"

I took stock of my advisors, and found no obvious signs of rejection. That, coupled with my keen reason, allowed me to agree. "We do, Warden."

"Good." She gave a deliberate look to Bethany and Surededat-an, her crimson eye flashing in the torchlight. "I'll need to speak with you two after this is over. Bring Sera, too."

Instantly I raised an objection. "We were agreed that Sera and the Herald were outside your purview," I reminded her. "They are not yours to command."

"Aye," Athadra conceded. "And I ain't commanding 'em. But I _do_ need to talk to them, and it needs to be tonight."

Both the Herald and the Champion affirmed their appointment, and though I was trepidatious, I would eventually come to be grateful for their attendance at that private meeting. For her part, Athadra retreated without another word, though she did cast one last glance backward before disappearing through the great wooden doors to the hall.

With that business dispensed with, we refocused on Corypheus himself, puzzling out possible motives for the Arbor Wilds, and stratagems for effectively engaging with his army in that environment. The area was deep in southern Orlais, thickly forested with hardy trees made to withstand the harsh winters there, and peopled with elves and humans made savage by the fierce climate. It was then the middle of autumn, nearly a year after our flight to Skyhold, with shortening days and an ever-increasing chance of snow blocking passage. On the one hand, this presented a worrying challenge for marching an army to fight, and yet the shortened timetable could only fuel Corypheus' desperation. The fact that he was resorting to such a move at this season revealed the measures he saw fit to condone in his quest, and underscored the numerous failures he had already suborned.

As for what the fiend was so eager to accomplish so far from civilisation, only Morrigan had any true inkling as to a candidate motivation. She suggested that he sought an ancient elven artifact called an _el'u'vi'an_ , a mirror which could be used to communicate-and even to travel-over vast distances. Such items were fantastically rare, though Morrigan insisted that some still existed in the forgotten spaces of the world, and it was certain that such a tool would be of great concern if it should fall into Corypheus' hands. Solas agreed that the Wilds might well harbour one of these artifacts.

With our proximate goal established, matters turned to the practical steps needed to secure it. Josephine's office would bring Celene and her banners on board, while Leliana's agents would spread news Dorian had discovered-that Corypheus had in all likelihood been a relatively minor nobleman from an obscure family, his claims to power resting on the circumstances of his survival rather than the strength of his name in ancient Tevinter. Such banalities were distasteful even to contemplate, but they were and are the lifeblood of Tevinter politics, and this propaganda may well help to undercut the Magisterium of Minrathous' tacit support for the venatori.

Marshaling an army of any size for the march is no small undertaking, and our army had by then grown to a reckonable force, enough that it would have given Orlais and Ferelden pause, but for the danger that Corypheus posed. Coupled with our allies and the Wardens, we would enter the Wilds with near to ten thousand men and women under arms, nearly a third of them ahorse, and treble that number in retainers and workers. We were going to bring a city's worth of folk into the Wilds in order to root out Corypheus, to offer a battle he could neither refuse nor hope to win. Varric would oversee the logistical concerns with Cullen's help along with that of our quartermaster, Eustace, a youth who had proven himself up to the challenge of keeping Skyhold supplied during the past three seasons.

With those decisions made and the hour growing late, we broke our council and parted, each to their own direction...though neither for the first time nor the last, I found my own path coterminous with that of Varric's. For a time we simply walked, as we had done more and more often in recent months, touring the walls around the castle and enjoying the marvelous sights of the Frostbacks that shielded our fortress. This evening our silence-usually comfortable-was somewhat troubled, burdened by events past, and those yet to come. I record our conversation here partly for my own selfish reasons, to indulge in the recollection and record a dear memory, and also because of the influence it had upon my thinking, before the battle and afterwards.

I was the first to break the silence, just as I had been the first to press beyond the ill-defined borders of our friendship, in the night following our reception at the Winter Palace. I had not even the excuse of wine, but I had been drunk on success, and I could not fathom spending that night alone; Varric acquiesced without demanding more, both in Halamshiral and over a disjoint a pair of nights we had shared in Skyhold, all at my behest. This night, as we surveyed the battlements, I could tell that his patience was growing strained beneath the weight of his desire for clarity, but he still refused to advocate his own agenda, or perhaps even to formulate one to begin with. "We are nearing the end of our mandate," I said, for want of something wittier. "Once Corypheus is defeated, our animating principle must needs adapt, if we are to survive. Will you remain at Skyhold, to help see our work through to what ends await us?"

"I don't know," he replied, earnestly. "Shit, I thought I'd kill some demons, get some material for a new book, maybe stick around long enough to make sure Harry could get the job done before I fucked off back to Kirkwall. I hadn't really put much more thought into it than that."

That was not an unexpected reply; the proper counterstroke was obvious in retrospect, yet it took me far too many steps to muster it. "You speak of what you once thought," I observed, almost idly. "How might your thoughts lie of late?" Though I had offered every advance in this affair, and I had faced terrifying circumstances both on the field and off, I could not bring myself to speak my affections aloud, for fear they would prove an illusion.

"I've been thinking about Kirkwall," he told me, and though I should not have been surprised, I was. "It's still a damned mess, and nobody's trying to put it back together. Somebody has to, eventually."

"And you think that somebody must be you?"

"Officially? Shit, no," he gruffed. "But I wouldn't mind helping pull some strings behind the curtain."

"How generous of you," I said, sarcastically.

"I try." For a few steps, it seemed as though our companionship had not changed, as though what had passed between us only too recently had indeed been a dream, if a sweet one. I was almost tempted to indulge that fancy, but for Varric's query, which turned the tables on my earlier interrogation. "What about you? Have you put any thought into what you're going to do once that old dragon riding bastard is gone for good?"

I had, regularly and often, hardly ever coming to the same conclusion twice. "The most likely outcome is the furtherance of the Inquisition," I mused. "We have built an institution, an army of hope as much as of flesh and blood. It would be irresponsible for us to dismantle it before we have achieved a durable peace."

"Sounds like someone's been talking a lot to Curly and Ruffles," the dwarf surmised. "But, you know...you only took this job because nobody else wanted it, or at least nobody who was fit to take it. That doesn't mean you've got to keep it, after this war's over."

"You are suggesting I abandon my position?"

He answered me with a chuckle. "I'm not suggesting anything," he claimed. "Just...observing that if this whole Inquisition stuff is going to be _durable_ , it'll have to hold up to a changing of the guard. Wouldn't you be more comfortable watching that happen, rather than waiting to die and trusting it to whoever's left?"

"I...don't know," I admitted. "I know that, as the first Inquisitor since the time of Emperor Drakon, my actions will set precedent for any who come after. Is it better to chart a lifelong course, or to have a revolving office?" I spoke as much to myself as to him, and he seemed to sense it, for he did not offer a response for half a dozen steps.

"That's up to you," he finally weighed in. "But indulge me for a minute; if you _weren't_ the Inquisitor, what would you want to do? Go back to the Chantry? Explore the Qunari jungles? Retire to a sheepfold in the Anderfels?"

"None of those," I told him, though his more outlandish suggestions earned him a private grin that he was becoming quite adept at eliciting, when few else could do so. His own lips curled in reply, and I halted in the wall, nearly overcome with the desire to kiss him, then.

"Tell me, Seeker," he breathed, only just audible over the wind moaning through the valleys around us. His use of my old title as a nickname had been irritating at first in its casual insubordination, but I had grown fond of it over time; even among my close counselors, he was the only one who didn't always address me by my new title. (Except for Suredat-an, of course, who still called me _basvaraad._ ) It was then that my doubts fled, as shadows from flame. "Had I the choice, I would ascertain the fate of my brethren, and rebuild them, if I could." As I spoke it aloud, I felt the quiescence of certainty, which had lately grown precious in its rarity.

"You mean the Seekers?"

"I do."

Varric's smirk was nearly as sharp as the chill of the wind. "From Inquisitor to Lord Seeker-Lady Seeker?-doesn't exactly seem like much of a retirement, you know."

"I know," I conceded. "I suppose those Ander sheep will just have to look after themselves."

"I guess so." His smirk dulled, then, and he seemed to come to some kind of decision. "If you _do_ go off and find the Seekers, you can bring them to Kirkwall. I think I know of a dwarf who'd love to have you there."

It took me an embarrassing number of heartbeats to comprehend his meaning, and when I did, I took my cue from his obliqueness, and tried to reply in kind. "Would this dwarf happen to have a superfluity of earrings and a penchant for complaining about his seat on the Merchants' Guild, perchance?"

"Looks like you might know him, too," the dwarf surmised, his grin flickering back to life. "Funny, that." And then, against type, he spoke more directly. "I've been...thinking," he mused, his lips still tipped into a smile. "About us, I mean." When I only nodded, he opened his hand, and I took it-as I had done more and more often since that first time, after the successful assault on Adamant Fortress. "I've been going back and forth about whether I should even say anything, or just...let things take their course."

"It seems an agreeable course," I observed, distantly.

"That it does," he concurred. "If we were both twenty years younger-and still unencumbered-I'd probably wait and see what happened after the big battle. I'd be a little more confident there _would_ be an after, for a start." He shook his head, looking out over the blanket of stars that reached into the distant peaks to the south. A zealous follower would have cursed him for a lack of faith, but my position had tempered my zeal, and though I was confident, I could not begrudge him his doubts...especially if they led him to do what I could not. "But we're not twenty years younger, and I've seen a few too many big fights to be so sure there'll always be an after, so I don't want anything hanging over me when I go into this one." He stopped walking, and used the leverage of his grip on my hand to guide me to face him.

He wasn't smiling, then, and I felt my heart constrict. "What do you not want to leave unspoken?" I wondered, hopeful and trepidatious in equal measure.

"I care for you, Cassandra." His free hand took my own, so that both of our hands were linked, and I could feel his reassuring grip even through the weight of our gloves. "More than I ever thought I could care for anyone...or, at least, more than I thought I wanted to." He hesitated, then, his brows drawing together and his lips curling, as they did when he searched for the right chain of words. "I want you to know that I _am_ going back to Kirkwall, if I can crawl out of the Arbor Wilds. It may not be right after, but it won't be too long. And when I do...I'd be very happy if you came with me." He shook his head, as if to forestall any premature dissent. "I'm not asking you to marry me and keep house, even if you do come; there's a life you can build in Kirkwall, I'm sure of it, and good work that we could do there together. And if you don't want to come, or don't feel you can, I'll understand. If what we're doing is just a distraction, a way to take your mind off all the shit you've got to do...I can understand, and I wouldn't blame you. But...if you-"

I never discovered what he had intended to say, for a great affection welled up in my breast, and I silenced him with a kiss, the first one we shared that had not been between the walls of a bedchamber. It had not been as I'd experienced as a younger woman, nor as the fantasist in me had dreamed in the quiet moments when I allowed my mind to contemplate romance, but nevertheless I found myself falling in love. "I can promise nothing," I warned him, when want of air forced our lips apart. "But if you do not find me by your side, it will not be for lack of desire."

Starlight shone in his eyes as Varric looked up at me, cradling my cheek in his hand. "I can't ask for more than that, Seeker."

* * *

 _Author's note: Thanks so much to **coffee_maker** at AO3 for giving this a gander. _


	23. Chapter 23

The march through the Dales was not perilous, but it was not uneventful, either; the Inquisition and the Grey Wardens set out in parallel, progressively joined by Orlesian allies as the days wore on, and the ancient forests gave the uninitiated ample opportunity to witness the Herald at her work sealing errant rifts we had missed in our previous ventures through the wild country. Each minor victory bolstered our confidence, so that by the time we began to meet true resistance from Corypheus' auxiliaries, the morale of our throng could hardly have been higher. My own heart was lighter, as well; I had as yet settled on no plan for the shape my life was to take once the all great hews and cries were finished, but I knew what my heart desired, and that was good enough to allay my doubts about what path I would take, as and when I was able.

Doubts about the path ahead of me were not long absent before doubts about the path I had already taken presented themselves, however. For all that they marched with us, the Grey Wardens maintained a distinct order of battle, and they pursued their own mission in the thick boreal that marked our common battlefield. They were not at all concerned with venatori, or Corypheus, or even the darkspawn; their sole aim was in hunting-and killing-any of their fellow Wardens whom Corypheus had enthralled. The Inquisition proper was focused on finding the fiend himself, and we had nearly achieved our goal when I received a summons to attend the First Warden in her tent, to be accompanied by Fiona, Suredat-an, Sera, and Bethany. Varric was not invited explicitly, but he came along regardless, and his presence was not challenged by the Wardens at the gate of their palisade.

Bethany and the Herald knew the way to the tent in question, which was both convenient and concerning, for it meant either that they had been there before or that they knew Athadra's mind intimately enough to infer her most likely location. Nevertheless they paused just outside the tent's entrance, neither apparently eager to discover the reason for the Warden's summons. It fell to me to announce us. "It is I, Cassandra Pentaghast, along with the company that was requested. May we enter?"

Her answer was a few heartbeats in the coming, and when it came, it was by way of magic rather than words. A tongue of mana licked through the air, drawing the flap open inwards, and my senses suddenly grasped two distinct magical essences emanating from within. I was the first through the opening, and I saw Morrigan and Athadra standing across from one another, a map-laden table between them. The Witch of the Wilds appeared much as I recalled from Skyhold, but my attention was taken by the Warden, who looked radically different from the elf I had met in the Western Approach, and all the times since.

Gone were the sundered chanter's robes, the wide-brimmed hat, the obscuring cloth over her face; Athadra stood instead in her Warden war-glory, her heavy armour glittering silver in the tent's low candlelight. Bronzed griffons decorated her elbows and knees, and a gilded pattern of the same device rested proudly on her breastplate. She wore a sword belt with two longswords affixed, one at each hip, and a pair of halfarm daggers lay crossed at the small of her back. A greatblade hung across her shoulders, its metal veined in deep blue and humming with magic, the hilt long enough for the Iron Bull himself to hold in both hands. In short, from the neck down Athadra appeared every inch the warrior of the minstrels' telling, a Grey Warden commander at the height of her power, ready to charge into a sea of darkspawn and emerge victorious, or at least to count her casualties in the dozens or hundreds before she fell.

Her face and head told a different story, however; what I and my companions found there was enough to give all of us pause. The sunburst brand upon her forehead was laid bare for all to see, and the ruin of her left eye was filled with a purple orb of light that made the weathered flesh all the more difficult to look upon. The manifold scars about her cheeks and neck were also fissured with a subtler glow, her grey-streaked hair lifting away from her scalp in a breeze only she could feel, revealing the burnt remnant of her ear. It was impossible to look into either of her eyes for more than a few seconds without feeling my heart begin to wither from the sheer anger she evinced, even as she stood serenely in the heart of her domain. It seemed to poison the very air about her, something intrinsic to her nature rather than a passing emotion. Not even Morrigan was completely unperturbed.

"Alright, we get it," Sera ventured, after a few moments' strained silence. "You've got a demon cozied up with you; you can put it away now, yeah?"

"No," the Warden said, her voice ringing in two timbres, distinct but not discordant, and far smoother than I had expected from previous experience. "The time for hiding's past." She glanced across the table at Morrigan, who grimaced at the attention. "Tell them."

"Very well," the mage acceded, before turning to address we who had been called here. "We have divined Corypheus' intended target, and we believe we have determined how to kill him."

The grim cast of her expression put lie to what should have been joyous news, and so I did not prepare to exult. "What is Maferath's due?"

"The monster's evident immortality lay in his connection to the taint," Morrigan explained, to the silent assent of Athadra. "'Tis not unlike that of an archdemon, and indeed is even more than that, for it gives access to the hearts of Grey Wardens at his leisure, rather than simply at the destruction of his current form."

Alarm moved me to speak, though much of what the Witch of the Wilds had said was new to me; I could tell by the reactions of Fiona, Bethany, and Suredat-an that the only addition to their knowledge had been that Corypheus shared these traits with archdemons. Even so, I could spot the immediate flaw in our plan that Morrigan's words brought to light. "Is it not folly that we have brought the full might of the Wardens within his grasp, then?"

"No," Athadra said. "My Wardens are immune to his influence, so long as my heart beats." The implication was clear, and not a little chilling, but before I could seek to clarify the matter, she inclined her head, prompting Morrigan to continue.

"So far as we can tell, Corypheus' communion with the darkspawn is through his enthrallment of the archdemon in his employ."

"The one we saw dead at Adamant, you mean?" Sera broached, voicing my own confusion.

"At first, yes," Morrigan allowed. "Yet after that Old God was felled, Corypheus brought another from beneath the ground."

"Not just any other," Athadra interjected. "The _last_ one. Lusacan." The name brought a shiver across my shoulders, a yawning uncertainty opening in the pit of my stomach even as the Warden went on. "And if you want to beat Corypheus for good and all, I'll have to kill it first." A tight spasm twitched across Morrigan's features, a fleeing expression that would have been easy to miss, and it held a note of anguish. Athadra shared a look with the witch, but her own demon-haunted face was even more muted. The moment passed, and Athadra looked to me, her left eye's glow dimming as the right eye-the one yet made of flesh-narrowed. "Did they tell you?"

My own eyes narrowed in their turn, confusion blending with suspicion. "Did who tell me what?"

The response must have satisfied her, for she nodded. "Ask them after the battle." Then she smiled, a soft thing, incongruous in her hard-etched visage; she showed it to each of the women gathered, and even to Varric. Though none of us-save perhaps Morrigan-knew precisely why, it was clear that there was something significant in the expression. "It's time," she allowed, as her smile fell. "No matter what comes, you all should know that I'm proud of you."

Though she was at least a decade my junior, a blood mage and an abomination besides-unapologetically embracing forces I had dedicated my life to opposing-I found myself honoured to be placed on the company of her confidantes, incidental as it may have been. There was no malice in her disposition, only resolve, and she manoeuvred through the tent with surprising grace for one so heavily clad and beset by a map's worth of scars withal. We emerged after her, into the martial order of the Grey Warden camp, and she signaled a lieutenant to call her troops to order. It took surprisingly little time for the warriors to assemble into their rows, men and women of every rank and race, every nation, of any faith and of none. The throng lacked the hierarchy inherent in most armies, even my own; there were on the order of one thousand souls whose bodies wore the griffon-patterned armour, but less than twenty of this number stood apart, in positions of recognisable authority. In my time at their periphery I had come to know them as not so much as an army as a mob, if a fantastically skilled and particularly ruly one.

All eyes turned to Athadra, who had clawed her way from Lothering to Weisshaupt, transforming herself from an anonymous elf into the leader of a continent-spanning military order in the process. If any were appalled or disgusted by the otherworldly appearance of their First Warden, none had the notion to break ranks. When Athadra spoke to her troops, she formed her words in Andish, as that tongue was known to the greatest number of those present, and the rest could rely upon the Warden Commanders of their own nations to echo her. Fiona did the honour for myself and those of my company, and she has never given me reason to doubt the fidelity of her translation.

"Wardens," she said, her voice magically amplified so that it sounded as though she were standing next to each and every one of us, talking calmly, almost whispering. "We are here met in this ancient wood, the far side of Thedas for none too few among us; brought across sand and shoal, over hill and through valley, fighting the same battle we've waged for a thousand years. The civilians think that battle be pressed against darkspawn, the dread villains what the Chantry says men unleashed from Heaven to spread the Maker's displeasure across the land.

"The civilians think so, and the Chantry says so, because they do not feel the tantalising pull in their veins when they near the horde; they do not taste the sweet foulness in the backs of their tongues whenever they take food and drink; they do not hear the siren song calling them back when they wake from bitter dream. They do not allow that we fight an altogether more rancid foe, one they believe long vanquished in the mists of time.

"But we know better. We have learnt the ways of the 'spawn, their habits, their methods of breeding and eating and arming themselves; we have even learnt the secrets of the taint, how to draw it out and cure it before it ever takes root." At that pronouncement, however, a general gasp of surprise and a few cries of denial. She kept talking, regardless of the surprise her words elicited. "Mired in secrets and conspiracies, we lost our way; we became like the Seekers of Truth, drunk with power and desperate for influence. And so we struck a bargain with ourselves, and we made it our mission not to defeat the 'spawn, but instead to divert them, to keep them raiding the surface, keep them digging in vain for hundreds of years, tormented by the song. That way the civilians would always need us, you see; they'd give of their monies and their lands, and let us rule ourselves and keep our secrets. As long as our true foes were kept locked away, we could keep that power, keep standing sentinel between the civilians and the chaos beneath the ground. In time, even we forgot the true foe; so many secrets, some held so close they passed out of memory, and we came to believe those lies we told the civilians-that there were no cure for the taint, save joining our ranks; that the fight were against the 'spawn; and that it couldn't be won." The silence that greeted these words bespoke shock as much as discipline, and the atmosphere became more tense by the heartbeat, yet still Athadra kept on.

"I tell you this now not to steal your hope, or to incite your wrath, but to explain what must be done, and why. The truth is that the Grey Wardens were not made to fight the darkspawn back into their holes and keep them there; we were instead forged with a single purpose: to kill the Old Gods and end their song. Instead of that goal, though, we've spent a thousand years standing watch, too greedy to step aside and too afraid to of what may come should we succeed. But our complacence made is weak, and in our weakness, we let the slumbering Old Gods raise up lieutenants beneath the ground, from before and after the scourge of the First Blight. One of those lieutenants raised Urthemiel, and after I brought her down over Denerim, and after I learnt the secrets I'm telling you all now, I helped him raise Razikale and Lusacan.

"Now Lusacan is all that's left of the Old Gods, all that's left of the song. Tomorrow she's going to take to the skies one last time, and I'll be there to meet her. Once the day is done, the work that's taken us a thousand years will be over and done with, at last. There'll be a new world that dawns the day after, one without any room for us in it. Our secrets are finished, and so are we."

She paused, then, and I wondered if the address might simply be finished; there had been enough to shake my own confidence to the core, and I could not imagine what the Wardens themselves might have been thinking. But then Athadra drew one of the daggers from the small of her back and laid it across her palm-which her gloves left exposed, ostensibly to offer firmer purchase on her weapons' hilts, though in retrospect it was clear that the purpose was to facilitate the initiation of blood magic. She muttered something, lowly to herself, before continuing such that we could all hear her once again.

"Join me, brothers and sisters," she began, uttering the words of the Joining ritual that all Wardens undertook to be inducted into the order...though as she went along, it became clear that she had altered a few of those words, to a purpose that became obvious only after it was accomplished. "Join me in the shadows where I stand vigilant. Join me as I carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And, though you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten." She glanced at me, then, along with those she had bid me bring, before turning more fully to the Wardens she had gathered. "And that, on the morrow, I shall join you."

She drew her blade across her flesh, then, pulling a well of black blood into her palm; it turned my stomach to witness such a thing, done so openly and without duress, yet it was not the greatest offense to morality I had swallowed from the woman, at least not at first. But quickly my displeasure twisted into distress, as the First Warden called upon her blood, and through it the blood of all those under her command. She strode calmly into their ranks, even as they began to twitch and froth, blood misting from their eyes and mouths in tones of pitch and crimson. Some, at the periphery, had the good sense to cry out and attempt to flee; others drew weapons and choked out war cries, evidently intent on cutting their master down, though it was a futile effort.

The blood that she bid her subordinates shed began to swirl about her, and those of her ilk who were apt to fight back had no more success than those prone to flight-all were caught up in Athadra's sanguine sorcery, and soon enough it became difficult to distinguish individuals within the nimbus of death; even so, I was rapt by the spectacle, unable to look away, unable to confirm whether that fatal cloud included the women of my company who had come to share the affliction in her veins. The fate of the Herald and her lover, along with the Champion of Kirkwall and the erstwhile First Enchanter, remained a mystery for several moments as I watched the macabre scene unfold, uncertain if my own blood would begin to rise to the command of the maleficar in our midst.

Yet, by the very provenance of my writing these words in my own hand and by the Herald's legend, there is neither art nor mystery in the fact of our survival. In truth we were mere witnesses to Athadra's ascension, both poetic and prosaic; none of us were destined to join our strength to hers on that day. We watched as the crimson mist began to spin widdershins, thickening as it did so. The centre whorled more quickly than the outer edge, and it lifted into the air with all the grace of an albatross in an updraft, rising like a scarlet finger into the sky. The edges of the cloud skirted the ground as light of violet and gold throbbed from the eye of the inverted hurricane, and then the great red shroud began to contract, revealing withered corpses in armour littered across the camp.

The blood in the sky pulled into an orb, and that orb morphed into the shape of a beast, a great dragon in the sky, forged and formed in the lifeblood of the Grey Wardens. The figure flapped its wings and opened its mouth, and when it roared, the sound shook the very roots of the trees around us. Then, as suddenly as it had coalesced, the dragon flew apart in every direction, thick streaks of crimson lancing like the points of a sunburst. In the centre of the ring was Athadra, floating in the air, her limbs spread wide and her hair thrown back.

She plummeted when the last of the gathered blood drained away from her, and I found myself stepping forward, as though I could catch her safely from the height she fell. Well before I could reach her, the armored elf landed in a crouch amidst the desiccated remains of her order, their flesh dry as paper, as though they had all perished centuries ago in the Hissing Wastes, rather than moments before, in front of us. Athadra stood, seeming to require little in the way of assistance, yet I still approached, followed by the rest of my company. The seven of us were the only living souls within the walls of the camp that had begun that morning with one thousand warriors in its auspices.

None of us were able to speak at first, though we noted the changes that Athadra's spell had wrought within her flesh. Her hair was long and vibrant, curling happily, as black as coal; both her ears poked through it, restored, the skin on her neck as smooth as though her skin had never been kissed by the archdemon's fire when she'd faced it atop Fort Drakon. Her dusky cheek lay unblemished by the mark Jarvia's blade had left there, not long before, and both her eyes looked out from her face, their colour a crimson as pure as a ripe cherry, pitted with onyx irises that betrayed neither compassion nor malevolence. Her forehead bore no memory of the brand Lambert van Reeves had burnt into it, and when she spoke, it was in the velvet notes of a scholar, instead of a warlord with half a thousand battles to her name.

"I weren't lying when I told you there were a cure," she said, nodding to Fiona. "She'll help you with it, when tomorrow's done and gone. She's already got the taint out of Beth and Sura and Sera, and when you get back to Skyhold, you'll be able to make your people immune to it for good and all."

No one could muster anything like a reply, until I found my voice, rough in all if the places the Warden's was smooth. "What have you done?"

She did not flinch when she looked upon me, did not shirk the magnitude of her crime. "I destroyed the Grey Wardens."

"They're all...gone?" Varric wondered, ash in his voice, add it was in his face.

"Aye," Athadra confirmed. "Even Anders. I'm sorry; he deserved better, after what I made him do."

"What you... _made_ him?" I interjected, my disaffected confusion stirring into the beginnings of outrage. "You had a hand in the apostate's actions in Kirkwall?"

"It were my design," she confirmed, as dispassionately as if we were discussing a siege engine's construction. "My will; his hands."

I could not tell if Bethany and Varric's silence was born of shock or of its lack, and to this day I have never asked. I could only wonder as to why Athadra might have done such a thing, but when I put voice to my question, it was Suredat-an who replied.

"Because it was the only way to free the dragon trapped beneath the city," she told us. "The Old God was ensnared by forces ancient and powerful, which could only be broken by great violence and skilled spellwork."

"...Wait," Sera mused, carefully. "You mean to say _she_ blew up that Chantry? And you _helped_ her?"

"Yes."

"But...that's...and the bodies and all, sucked dry like old apples." She drew back, horrified, casting her eyes about the carnage around us. "What's so Heraldy about all this, then? Where's Andraste in all this mess?"

"Nowhere," Athadra supplied. "If it's any consolation, it weren't the Chantry as such, but the building itself that had to be destroyed, lest the Old God beneath the city continue to slumber for another thousand years." She looked back to me, her expression a mask. "All that I've done since Duncan saved me from that cell in Kinloch Hold has been to get to tomorrow. Tomorrow she and all her sisters will be truly a thing of history, as will I. Let that serve to answer your quandaries, and to slake your thirst for revenge."

She turned to Morrigan for the first time since we had all emerged from her tent, back when this was yet a camp instead of a mass grave. "I've not been half the lover you deserve, nor half the friend. For that, and only that, I am sorry, Morrigan." The witch drew up, her jaw clenched tightly, and she could only nod. "If you would, let Alistair see his daughter. He don't have anyone in that whole damned castle anymore, ever since Anora died and Leliana went off to Haven. I imagine he's been lonesome, and he'll want to know about me from someone he trusts."

Morrigan's lip curled in distaste, but after a tense moment, she relented with a nod of defeat. "It shall be done," she vowed, before she turned and began stalking away. Before she reached the camp's perimeter she looked back, frowning. "Do you also wish me to inform Zevran?"

The First-and now, by her own accounting, the last-Warden nodded, after a pause. "If you would," she repeated, her voice still smooth, but deepened with something approaching regret.

Morrigan gave no audible reply, and when I looked to see, I was unsurprised to find her absent, as though she had never been among us.

Athadra gathered her thoughts, and her strength, and bid us leave. "Corypheus may not understand the magnitude of what I've done tonight," she warned us, "but he'll be wise tomorrow. Once the dragon's down, he'll be weakened, so you must deliver the killing blow before he recuperates."

"I will," vowed Suredat-an.

And then Athadra left us, there in the camp, to pick our way through the bone-stretched corpses back to our own place of refuge. On the morrow, we would have to make good on the promise she had made, whether or not we were prepared to do so.

* * *

 _Author's note: Thanks so much to **coffee_maker** at AO3 for another excellent beta read! _


	24. Chapter 24

The sacrifice of the Grey Wardens remained largely unknown to the bulk of the forces gathered in the Arbor Wilds over the course of the next day, for we were all soon engaged in a fierce battle which spanned the breadth of our lines, made all the more urgent by the thick trees and steep gullies of the forest. Our saving grace was the fact that it was we who pressed the attack and Corypheus' forces who were forced to defend, lest they allow us to march unopposed on the temple their master sought. Yet they fought as though possessed, a combination of the red lyrium infusing their flesh and the certainty that they were the last of their kind giving them a strength and ferocity as yet unseen.

My companions and I formed the tip of the spear, driving into the heart of the woods, where the terrain was most passable but the enemies were thickest. We fought along an ancient path, only noticeable in parts, overgrown by bush and tree or worn down by rain and river. The further we advanced, the fiercer grew the resistance, as a spring being pushed upon. Our forces and our auxiliaries navigated the ticker wood, keeping the pressure on the red templars and the mages we had not been able to save. There were a great many lyrium abominations-creatures gnarled and twisted by the foul substance, regardless of demonic influence-and many more who showed signs of succumbing to the lyrium their master bade them consume.

As the hours passed with too little rest and too many casualties, we began to notice that there were no longer any darkspawn counted among our enemies, whether from Athadra's dread magic or from sheer exhaustion of numbers...though, given what history had to tell us about the seemingly endless nature of the horde, the former stood far more likely than the latter. The Warden herself did not make an appearance until near the end of the day, and in a most breathtaking fashion, once we had tracked Corypheus and the last of his reserves to the final bridge leading to the very doors of the temple which he so desperately needed to infiltrate.

Some device had checked their progress, a piece of ancient magic that vaporised all who attempted to cross the bridge. Had he been more confident in his own immortality, it is probable that Corypheus would have absorbed the artifact's power into himself, and used one of his Warden lieutenants to resurrect, as he had done throughout the ages hitherto; he evidently had no more Warden lieutenants to hand, however, and he appeared much weakened besides. When we broke through the last of the red forces' resistance and cornered him, he was much diminished from the power he enjoyed in the demolition of Haven. Now, as then, a tainted dragon came to rescue him from the Herald; like then, it was reputed to be an archdemon. Yet it had no horde of darkspawn beneath its wings, and though it appeared fearsome in its own right, it did not attack our vanguard, intent on extricating its master before he could be submitted to our justice.

It was then that Athadra appeared; not as an elf, or as a mirage of blood, but as a dragon of flesh and fire, with scales as black as an overcast night and wings wide enough to blot out the evening sun. None of us could be certain of her identity at first, and indeed Corypheus' exhausted troops initially took the dragon as another of Corypheus' pets, but that delusion was shattered along with the skies when the draconian arrival screeched a challenge loud enough to shake the trees, and the archdemon could not but rise to meet it.

Though I had seen many dragons over the course of my life, and had been party to the deaths of more than a few, I had yet to properly witness two of the creatures engaged in combat with one another. The dragons of my youth which assaulted the Grand Cathedral in attempt to murder the Grand Cleric had been young, enthralled by blood mages, quick to scuffle and scatter once that control was overthrown. These two dragons were not encumbered by such magic, and neither had any stake in defeat, so there was no incentive to hold back.

The spectacle temporarily united the warring factions on the ground, as we paused to take it in, nearly overwhelmed by the majesty and horror on display in equal measure. The archdemon appeared to hold the upper hand at first, perhaps more used to moving in its own skin, but the ferocity that had its challenger on the back wing was shortlived, spent quickly as though it were oil, raging hot for minutes but sputtering out for want of a wick to contain the flame. As Athadra turned the battle above, so too did the Inquisition troops really once again to the cause, pushing the last of the red templars to the very mouth of the bridge. Black blood rained down from the skies, covering friend and foe alike. If was of such potency that many of those afflicted perished in short order, and many more suffered greatly before meeting their own ends days or weeks after the battle was won; I did not know it immediately, but Rhys was among the former, and many other mages and templars under our banner were counted with the latter. It was perhaps unsurprising that Rhys would succumb-he was a mage of the Circle, trained croon his capture to avoid face-to-face combat, and yet he had risen to assume operational control of our mages once we had liberated them from their bondage in Redcliffe. Such a position perforce put him in harm's way, and our victory could not have been secured without sacrifices such as his.

Such reflection and regret would come to the survivors later, but in that moment the only thoughts I had to spare were of Corypheus, and of Calpernia, his last and most loyal lieutenant. Though the battle was lost, they had nowhere to retreat, and as soon as the archdemon fell, they would have no recourse to survival, much less victory. In the end, Corypheus attempted to taint Calpernia's blood, possibly in some mad hope that this would grant him some last measure of security...but it only succeeded in killing her, and wiping the last vestiges of his madness from any living mind but his own. In the end he was left raving, begging favour of gods long dead, if they ever truly existed in the first place. The last living vestige of his ancient faith was swept from the sky only a few moments before Suredat-an's fist closed over his throat and her brute strength tore his head from his shoulders. His last words were not worth recording, pitiful cries exposing the impotence at the bottom of all his rage and anguish, one who would have destroyed the world rather than see fail his attempts to revive a past forgotten by all save himself.

Exultation was not an immediate result of our victory, however; once the Herald had secured it, our attention turned to the great mass of corrupted flesh which had resulted from the aerial combat coterminous with our battle. In the last instant, both dragons had fallen from the sky, landing in a heap by the bank of the river that cut a natural moat for the temple Corypheus had been unable to penetrate. Suredat-an was the first of us to investigate the remains, and Sera, Bethany, Varric, and I moved to follow her in short order. We saw the remains of the archdemon clearly enough, a glimmer of vitality still suggested by its shining scales, twisted as they had been by the taint. It lay on its back, however, sprawled in a manner both morbid and ridiculous, impossible to maintain if not for the indisputable fact of death. It was difficult to see from our vantage, but the irregular lump upon the dragon's chest was a body, elven in stature, curled as though in a deep slumber. It was too far for my eyes to see clearly, and I was too susceptible to the corruption in the dead flesh to confirm what we all suspected.

Bethany and Suredat-an were not susceptible, however; both had been Grey Wardens inducted under Athadra's guidance, and they were among the first to receive her cure, which allegedly conferred a lasting immunity upon any who made use of it. The two women climbed the filthy corpse of the dragon, and together they retrieved the body that lay upon it. Until they returned, a part of me held out some hope that their charge truly _was_ sleeping, recovering from her final battle. But it was simply not the case, and perhaps that was for the best; she looked becalmed in the Herald's grasp, truly at peace for the first time in the memory of any present who had known her. "It is over," I pronounced, when none other had a word to spare.

"No," Suredat-an rebutted, ever the contrarian.

"We should bury her," Solas suggested, with greater respect than I would have imagined. "She would not have wanted anything like an Andrastean pyre."

I found no tongue to argue; we were deep enough within the unmapped forest that it was unlikely that the taint still within her body would ever do anyone harm, especially considering the much greater carcass that we had no intention of properly disposing. I left Cullen in charge of withdrawing our forces and mopping up the remaining skirmishes, and the companions I had who had known her best accompanied Solas and I even deeper into that old place. We counted the same company who had witnessed the end of the Wardens, save that Solas served as an altogether inadequate substitute for Morrigan, and Leliana accompanied us as well; the erstwhile Left Hand of the Divine and current candidate for that very same title had travelled with the Warden during the Fifth Blight, at the beginning of Athadra's journey into legend, and she claimed a right to be there at its end.

We found her a bower at the base if an ancient tree, near to death itself by Solas' reckoning, and there we lay her down into the earth. There were words of gratitude, as well as of regret, but they were private; in lieu of details, I offer a summary, gleaned from many confidences with her confidantes.

Athadra Surana had, over the too-paltry sum of her days, been party to the cruelest violence both given and received. If she had had the luxury of choice, none would have ever heard her name outside of the village of Lothering, where she was born on the last day of Drakonis, in the eleventh year of the Dragon Age. Had she her own heart in mind, she would have tended her farm and flock in peace; instead, the Chantry tore her from her home, and fate threw her into a gyre of blood and anguish that might well have swallowed the world entire, but for her resolve to prevent that end. She had sacrificed every kindness, every virtue, every tender instinct so that the greater part of those who survived her had the opportunity to enjoy them at our leisure. She was not without her vices, made all the sharper by those sacrifices. By all accounts she was not _good_ , as such, but she was strong, and brave, and willing to subvert her own desires so that others could choose to be better than she was. It is true that the world needed women and men of her kind, and may indeed need them still, but that does not render equitable the costs she had to bear in life and, ultimately, in death. I know that I have borne similar costs, though I count myself of the greatest fortune that I did not have to pay the same price as the woman we interred beneath that ancient tree. I can only pray that the life I have been afforded of late, in its own final accounting, proves worthy of the sacrifice that helped to see it into my hands.

With our duty discharged, we beat a retreat back to our camp, where our exhausted forces would be taking rest-or, more likely, celebrating. The mood in the party that travelled was hardly exuberant, but I could not have begrudged the men and women who'd bled for my cause any jubilation they cared to pursue. It was well dark when we happened upon the glow of the main camp, and we were not long in being challenged by a patrolling guard. "Who goes there?" She belted, warily, showing the discipline of Cullen's training, as well as the fastidiousness of his circumspection.

"It is Cassandra Pentaghast," I pronounced, "leading a party of eight, including myself. We have returned from business in the forest."

The guardswoman lofted her torch to cast light upon us, and she nodded to me in respect of not precisely recognition. But then her eyes narrowed as she cast them about. "I count seven," she observed. "Have you lost a member of your company, Inquisitor?"

I turned and inspected my fellows, concerned, only to realise that Solas had disappeared sometime after dusk had fallen-we had largely walked in silence, so it would have been fairly easy to slip away, though it was very unlikely that we would have simply left him behind. I judged that the elf could make his own way back to camp easily enough, and that if he did not wish to do so, there was little to be done to find him, much less compel him. And, now that Corypheus was defeated, there was little reason to try, in any case. "I was mistaken," I allowed, turning back to the guard. "We are seven, and we are very tired."

The vigilant woman nodded, gesturing for us to follow, and we fell into line until we reached the main gate through the palisade, whereupon we scattered into the camp once our identities were confirmed to the gatekeeper's satisfaction.

That was a night of relief, even elation, if not precisely one of joy, and it passed almost precisely one year ago as I write this. Much has changed in the last twelvemonth, not all for the better, though as we approach the midpoint to the Dragon Age, there has scarcely been more reason for hope. The day after Corypheus was defeated, just before we struck our camp to begin an orderly retreat, Fiona and Bethany presented me with a book not unlike the one I have written, though it is not so personal, being grander in scope; it details the history of the first Inquisition and that order's transmutation into the Seekers of Truth, and it exposes many of the secrets my brethren and sistren kept close for so many years. The codex was passed down from Lord Seeker to Lord Seeker throughout the ages, until the position and the book both came into the hands of Lambert van Reeves. The succession was broken when Lambert enslaved Athadra as a Tranquil, and the book was one of the few things to survive Athadra's vengeance, once she had regained her sense of self. That she spared the tome showed her dedication to history, and that she saw it into my possession after the fight was won showed her foresight, as well as her consideration.

What I learned from the book led me to settle my quandary about my future, which I have already explained. In my heart I could not justify retaining the mantle of Inquisitor once the organising principle that was our mission had been completed. Instead I retired, and hunted down the Seekers under Lucius; that tale is less grand than this one, more intimate in several ways, and in any case has little bearing on the resolution of the accounting which forms this work. I will only say that I make my home in Kirkwall when my business does not pull me elsewhere, and though I could never have imagined living in this great and terrible place, I have come to love it a great deal.

The Inquisition itself did not perish with my departure, of course; perhaps it could not have done so, with the passions of so many roused to work together, and the lingering threat of rifts and the continuing lack of Chantry leadership combining to keep them united even after Corypheus' destruction. But I like to think it was the Herald finally growing into her full potential that guaranteed the Inquisition's place in history.

Suredat-an Adaar became the second Inquisitor of the modern ages in a grand ceremony in Skyhold, one month to the day after we returned to it from the Arbor Wilds. I had the honour of crowning her before our legion to great fanfare among the crowd, and unspeakable pride among our companions. Not too many days later, I made my way from Skyhold on my own journey, and in the last year I have not had occasion to return, but I have never heard anything to shake my faith in the Inquisitor's competence. Since my departure, the Inquisition has prospered under her leadership, settling disputes among the Avvar and strengthening the Veil across southern Thedas.

Solas never returned to Skyhold, to my knowledge, and neither did Cole, who disappeared shortly after Rhys perished. I am certain both still live, though the better part of me hopes never to have reason to seek them out, come what may.

Leliana left not long after I did, taking her seat in Val Royeaux as Divine Victoria. I had counseled her against accepting her election by the College of Clerics, suggesting that she may find happiness with King Alistair, as had been her heart's desire for more than a decade, but her ambition-not to mention her great sense of duty-got the better of her. It remains to be seen precisely what her legacy shall be, but already she has made great strides in enacting her vision for a more equitable clergy and laity. That effort will not be accomplished without a great deal of work, both in the light of day and in the shadows, but Divine Victoria is one of the few I could credit with succeeding. As for her own successor to the post of spymaster, I honestly have no idea, and I suspect that is just the way they like it.

The Iron Bull and his Chargers remain in Skyhold's employ, with little sign of moving on any time soon. They retain nominal independence, but they are veterans of nearly every Inquisition campaign, and are honoured as such. I cannot imagine the Bull does not still burn inside at the choice he and the Herald made, to spurn his homeland and break the putative alliance which was the only guarantee of peace between the Inquisition-on behalf of southern Thedas-and the Qunari. There have been no outright moves toward war, but continued peace is a concern as delicate as gossamer, something to be protected and cherished with great care. For all that, I was glad to see him choose to save his company, and I hope his discontent will lessen, in time.

At my last letter from Cullen, I learned that Dorian has only lately departed for Tevinter, to make what mark he can upon the Magisterium and the nobility. It is far more likely to get him killed than to see him elevated to Imperial Archon. Still, if there is anyone I trust to try to do the right thing, it is Dorian of house Pavus. May Andraste preserve him, and see him return south a friend and ally, come what may.

Sera remains the vocal advocate and lover of the Herald of Andraste, as well as a menace to nearly everyone else; vexing to her friends, downright maddening to her enemies, she maintains her informal network of servants and smallfolk to keep the nobles of Orlais on the tips of their pointed shoes.

As for Cullen and Josephine, of course they remained at their posts, as the marshal of Inquisition forces and chief diplomat, respectively. They did so of their own accords, but with my blessing and gratitude, as there could hardly be any more suitable candidates for either role. With them to guide Suredat-an, she cannot but be an effective leader of women and men.

Fiona returned to magical governance in Rhys' absence, competing directly with Vivienne for leadership of the Inquisition's mages. She succeeded in this endeavour, albeit narrowly, and soon founded a College of Enchanters where all mages are free to learn and practice without Chantry interference. That is the ideal, at any rate; its realisation is tempered somewhat by the ongoing weakness of the Veil and the breakdown in formal education due to the war, with the result that too many young mages fall prey to the lure of demons before they can adequately learn to resist them. The College does the best it can to police these cases, but there is uneasiness about the possibility that, one day, such policing will be inadequate to protect the great majority of non-magical Thedosians. In view if these tensions, Vivienne has of late campaigned for a revived Circle, complete with templars, though in a much different capacity than their antecedents. It remains to be seen how successful she will be, or how necessary the proposal shall come to be seen.

The darkspawn abandoned Corypheus at the last, after Athadra made her sacrifice, but they did not vanish from the earth as the Grey Wardens had done; instead, after a blessed sum of weeks with no activity, the tainted fiends returned to the surface in numbers not seen in many lands for centuries, though their savage menace was much diminished by the efforts of the Wardens and the Inquisition during their enthrallment by Corypheus. Their curse was horrible, and yet it provided another avenue I'd influence for Suredat-an's Inquisition, for her alchemists had distilled the cure developed by Athadra's work, and they shared it with all who agreed to serve under their banner or to work as an ally. In effect, the Inquisition replaced the Grey Wardens, though they did not recapitulate that order's mistakes. As I write these words, the darkspawn are closer to being truly defeated than they ever have been, since the magisters' folly brought them upon the world. This likely could never have been, but for Athadra's designs, and her unshaken will to see them through, no matter the cost. I believe I have sufficiently eulogised her above, but I simply want this record to reflect the debt that the Inquisition owes the Grey Wardens, and their final leader in particular.

As for what the future may hold, I cannot say with any certainty; Ferelden is already showing signs of chafing at the Inquisition's presence along its borders and within its territory, while Orlais is becoming less and less subtle in its attempts to exert influence over the order that helped to end that country's civil strife. Perhaps Athadra's absence means that King Alistair is less apt to overlook the liberties I took in times of crisis, and perhaps Celene and Briala imagine that with me gone and Leliana ensconced in the Grand Cathedral, they will have a much easier time manipulating events to their advantage. They may not be entirely wrong in that assessment, though part of new relishes the thought of Suredat-an delivering her inevitable reply to any backhanded overtures the empire might make.

All that I can say for a certainty is that I have written this accounting to the best of my talents, taking pains to verify my recollection of events where I stood witness, and presenting the most trustworthy sequence where I did not. Any errors or omissions were not undertaken out of malice or self-aggrandisement, and are mine alone to answer for. I leave this as a testament to my time with the Inquisition, from its inception in the shadow of the Breach to my resignation and replacement. It has been perhaps the greatest honour of my life, and it will be a great pleasure to witness the continuation of the work I helped to begin. I leave the chronicle of the next chapter of Inquisition history to more capable hands than my own.

By the grace of the Maker,

Cassandra Pentaghast

* * *

 _Author's note: And here we are, folks! I hope you've enjoyed this retelling of the Inquisition from Cassandra's perspective. Thanks as always goes to **coffee_maker** at AO3 for beta-reading (and generally being an awesome person). This also serves as a bookend for _ Sanguinarius Sanctus _as a series; there may well be more one-shots and ficlets set in S.S. canon to come, but the series always and ever is Athadra's story. Athadra took me through some of the most difficult times of my life, but she deserves her rest, now._

 _If you've ever enjoyed this or any other of my works, know that I am grateful, and I thank you for being along for the ride._

 _Until next time,_

 _Riptide_


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